


A Waltz for Three

by M_Moonshade



Series: The Return of Scoutmaster Harlan [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, good boyfriends, team cecearlos 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Learning to dance takes time and attention and more than a little bit of work, but once you learn to stop staring at your feet and enjoy the music, it's more than worthwhile.</p><p>A relationship is no different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sand and Green Apple

**Author's Note:**

> Waltz- noun. A ballroom dance distinguished by its moderately fast triple meter
> 
>  
> 
> This fic starts immediately after the last chapter of Whispers in the Dark. 
> 
> (Happy Valentine's Day!)
> 
> Note: Thank you to XParrot for pointing out the typos. As it turns out, autocorrect is a lot harder to catch in the act when you're dealing with prose. Who knew?

The house is a little bit different, when Carlos comes home from the lab for the first time. Only little things-- slight moves in furniture, a different order to the dishes in the cabinets, a general sense of cleanliness and orderliness that wasn’t there before-- the sort of changes that are to be expected when you’ve been away from a place for so long.

If anything, he’s surprised how much of his stuff is still there. The colorful bismuth is still sulking under its bell jar, the beakers and test tubes still clutter the bookshelves. Even the half-burnt oven mitt, covered in sharpie equations from that one time when he couldn’t find any paper in the throes of a eureka moment. It’s so badly mangled that it’s barely better than a rag, but Carlos wanted to keep it for reference, and Cecil had indulged him.

In fact, the whole house is almost eerily unchanged. It’s like he was only gone for a conference, rather than being officially non-existent for more than four weeks.

It isn’t until nightfall that he notices the change.

* * *

 

It takes some creativity to get undressed for bed. It’s like a puzzle,  slipping out of one arm of his shirt while Cecil clings to the other. Carlos doesn’t mind the affection; Cecil will relax eventually, once he’s persuaded himself that his boyfriend won’t disappear again.

“Can you--?” he starts, indicating the still-clothed arm that Cecil is currently holding hostage.

The radio host flushes scarlet and relinquishes the appendage. “Right. Sorry about that.” And he’s all fidgety and awkward and by far the most adorable organism Carlos has ever laid eyes on. He’s barely liberated his arm from his sleeve before he wraps it around Cecil’s waist. From there it's just a shift in position, a slight change in his center of gravity, and Cecil falls backward onto the mattress with a squeak with Carlos following right after.

“Hey,” Carlos says, and it sounds like something out of a bad 90’s movie, but he’s got Cecil pinned to the bed underneath him and he can’t remember the last time they did this.

Cecil blushes all the way to his collar-- deeper, when Carlos starts trailing kisses down his neck-- and his fingers tighten around Carlos’ hips.

They move against each other with deliberate care, a slow reintroduction after too much time spent apart, all soft kisses and skimming fingertips. Release comes not with a crescendo but a gasp, like waking up from a bad dream and knowing that everything is finally, finally going to be okay.

For the first time that day the tension melts from Cecil’s shoulders. His whispered adulations fade into murmurs,  then mumbles,  and finally he falls asleep in Carlos’ arms.

He’s beautiful-- absolutely radiant-- and Carlos is content to just hold him and watch the moonlight wash across his soft features.

Eventually Carlos’ eyes drift closed and he curls into Cecil, burying his face in his pillow, and sighs.

His eyes open.

That can’t be right.

Another sniff, more pointed this time, confirms it: the pillow smells...wrong. Like sand and sweat and green apple shampoo.

It smells like Earl.

He glances at the pillow-- maybe Cecil grabbed the wrong pillowcase by mistake-- but no, the pillow matches the bedspread.

An animal whimper from across the mattress pulls him out of his thoughts.

Cecil's still asleep, but he's shaking.  Cold sweat beads on his forehead. His breath comes in gasps and soft whines.

Instinctively Carlos wraps himself around Cecil again.

“Shhh,” he murmurs into his boyfriend’s hair. “Shh, go back to sleep. It’s okay. I’m right here, Cecil. I’m right here.”

* * *

 

It happens again almost a half-dozen times during the night. Between that and his own restless thoughts, Carlos doesn’t get more than a cumulative hour of sleep.

Come morning he doesn’t say anything to Cecil, and makes pleasant (if a little sparse and awkward) conversation with him and Earl over breakfast. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see the subtle shifts in body language, the way Earl keeps leaning forward as though to touch Cecil and changing his mind halfway through, the way Cecil oscillates between turning to Earl and clinging to Carlos.

Still he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not that he’s trying to be sneaky or anything-- it just isn’t good science to form a hypothesis before he’s done any substantial research.

Unfortunately, he’s a scientist, not Sherlock Holmes. He judges anomalies based on the laws of physics, but he can’t piece together intimate details about human behavior from minutia. Not with confidence, anyway.

He's got nothing substantial by the time Cecil leaves for work,  and so he turns his research to the rest of the house.

After an hour of investigation, the only thing he’s concluded is that he's exhausted and that the Netflix queue has changed.

“Can’t find what you were looking for?” Earl asks on a pass through the living room, while Carlos stares dead-eyed at the television. “Sometimes they take down movies that have been on for a while. It happened with _Farscape_.”

Carlos considers deflecting him, but at the last minute he changes his mind. If study by observation isn’t going to get him anywhere, he might as well try Cecil’s method of investigation.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“What about?” Earl asks, eager to help as ever.

Of course, Carlos doesn’t have Cecil’s knack for sneaking uncomfortable questions into casual conversation.

“I just noticed that you didn’t get rid of my clothes,” he says, because that’s honestly the best possible segue he can think of. “You were living here-- I figure you could have used the closet space.”

He doesn’t mean it unkindly-- just an observation-- but Earl blanches like he’s been accused of selling wheat to minors.

“No, not at all,” Earl says too quickly. “I have a bag. For my clothes. It’s got plenty of room. It’s right over there.” He points to the pillow and neatly-folded blankets stacked next to the couch that Earl slept on last night.

Though apparently not the night before.

“About that.” Carlos watches the color draining from Earl’s face with every syllable. “You’ve been sleeping...” _Upstairs. In my room. In my bed. With Cecil._ He can’t decide how to finish the sentence, so he ends it there.

But apparently, Earl doesn’t need him to elaborate.

“It’s not what you think,” he says. “Nothing happened. I wouldn't have come up at all, but Cecil wasn’t doing well-- I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

"I see." Carlos adjusts his glasses, just for something to do with his hands.

He can't say he didn't suspect something like this would happen, but he'd _hoped_.

Cecil isn't stupid. He knows Night Vale's mortality rate better than anyone outside the SSP-- hardly a week goes by without another string of obituaries.  For the most part he keeps everyone at arm's length and cheerfully expounds on the fragile and fleeting nature of existence, because he has to. Because if he allows himself to care too deeply about people, the grief would unmake him entirely.

Carlos knows that all too well. He heard it echoing down the polished lanes of a bowling alley, all those months ago.

He still held onto the hope, though, that it would be temporary. That Cecil would grieve and cry, and then move on with his life.

The evidence says otherwise.

If the nightmares were this bad last night, he can’t even imagine how they must have been before.

He takes a deep breath,  interrupting Earl's babbled explanations.

“Thank you," he says at last. "For staying with him.”

“Wait, what?” Earl’s eyes are wide enough to contain their own orbit. “You’re not… er…”

"Not what?"

“Angry?”

Carlos shakes his head. “I asked you to take care of him, didn’t I? I just didn’t realize how bad things got.”

Honestly, he _would_ have been jealous not too long ago. He’s assumed the worst of Earl at almost every turn before now, and every time he’s been proven wrong. In the face of that much evidence, it’s hard not to reconsider your assumptions.

By some Night-Valian brand of irony,  the most physically capable and dangerous man Carlos has ever met is also the most meek and mild-mannered. Paint him green and the poor guy could pass for Bruce Banner-- hell, he's already got the purple shorts.

Case in point: Earl’s still fidgeting. “Just so you know, I’ve been looking for a new place, since we got you back. The BSA has started talking to me again, and they’re talking about getting my old job back. So I won’t be in your hair too much longer.”

“That’s good,” Carlos says. “About the job, I mean.” This conversation is already awkward enough.  There's no point in drawing it out any longer,  so he just lets the words tumble out. “Earl, do you like it here?”

Earl stares back at him with the cock-eyed expression that translates universally as “does not compute”.

“If you’re uncomfortable here-- and you have every right to feel that way-- you don’t have to stay. But if you don’t, there’s a place for you here.”


	2. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first conversation is ominous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely and talented VidenteFernadez added an illustration for your viewing pleasure: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/78736520426/i-was-referring-to-the-experiments-mentioned-in-chapter

The first conversation is ominous. It begins with "Cecil, we need to have a talk", and those words are dangerous enough that the City Council has posted bulletins about them. So while Carlos sits him down, Cecil is mentally preparing apologies, supplications, and lists of liquors that will help him forget if the first two don't do the trick.

The next words out of his beautiful scientist's mouth are the ones he feared: "You like Earl, don't you?"

For this, at least, he's made some preparations. "Of course I do. He's an excellent friend, and--"

"Not just as a friend, though."

Cecil's face goes hot and cold all at once. "No. I mean, yes. I mean, I wouldn't-- I'm with you. You know that. I love you, and I wouldn't--"

"But that doesn't mean you don't want to," Carlos says.

Cecil would fall to his knees if the damn couch weren't in the way. Instead he grabs onto Carlos' lab coat, pulling him close by the lapels to keep him from getting away. This can't be happening. Not after everything. Not now.

"Please, Carlos." He wants to shout, but it comes out a whisper. "Please don't leave me."

And Carlos blinks, surprised, and pulls Cecil tight against his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, cariño. I promise."

"But-- but you said--" Cecil buries his head in Carlos' shoulder. "I don't want to break up."

Carlos makes a small sound in the back of his throat. Cecil knows it well: the sound of an assumption being questioned, re-evaluated, and discarded in favor of a more accurate truth.

"I'm sorry, Cecil. I didn't mean to worry you. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

* * *

 

The second talk is more one-sided. Mostly it involves Earl sitting perfectly still, his expression carefully blank, responding in monosyllables as Cecil tries to explain. By the end, Cecil has absolutely no idea how he's taken it all. Earl's only response is "Let me think about it."

* * *

 

The third conversation is between Carlos and Earl, and Cecil is not invited. That doesn't stop him from listening at the door, though, and even if he can't catch every word, he can hear the cadence of their voices.

It's been weeks since things got settled, but Cecil never ceases to be amazed at how well Carlos and Earl get along. They're both super smart and analytical, though Carlos tends to stray more into the abstract and Earl favors the practical applications of things. Put them to work on the same project and they compliment each other almost perfectly. The burning wreckage that once was StrexCorp can attest to this.

The conversation goes on for hours, until Cecil is fighting his own growling stomach to stay and listen.

It turns out he loses, because finally Earl opens the door, looking entirely unsurprised to find him crouching there.

“We could hear you through the door,” he points out, not unkindly. "If you're going to go out for food, could you bring us back something?"

* * *

 

The fourth conversation involves all three.

* * *

 

The conclusion is drawn, but it isn't complete. It'll need careful maintenance, communication, experimentation until they figure out a system that works best for everyone involved.

Which is where this comes in.

Carlos and Earl have each confessed to the other one's attractiveness, but as of yet it's mostly in theory. Eye candy and good conversation can only get a relationship so far. In Carlos' words, they have a hypothesis, and now they need to test it. And Cecil, of course, is needed as the objective observer.

The fact that Cecil's had dreams about this for _ages_ now makes him a little less than objective, but he's not about to interfere with science.

Once again, Carlos makes the first move while Earl remains motionless, still unwilling to intrude. Their lips meet uncertainly, a little bit clumsy. There's a moment of hesitation, observation, before Earl kisses him back. Hands rise and unfurl, emboldened. Carlos cups Earl's cheek, Earl tangles his fingers in Carlos' hair, and Cecil has to shift in his chair while his pants grow uncomfortably tight.

By the time they break apart, their faces are flushed, their breathing heavy, and Cecil’s hands are clenched so tightly around the chair’s armrest that he’s leaving nail prints in the wood.

* * *

 

Carlos assures him that any experiment, to be scientifically valid, must be repeated. Several times. Just to make sure the results can be replicated.

And he would know. He is a scientist, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlos could be a supervillain if he really put his mind to it. He's got that way of speaking that makes everyone brace themselves for the worst-case scenario. 
> 
> But the secret to a strong relationship is communication, even if you unintentionally scare the crap out of people every time you open your mouth.


	3. Not just dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos is working late on a project. Earl and Cecil have dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with sexy (NSFW) fanart by the ever-talented VidenteFernandez: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/77425234778/a-waltz-for-three-chapter-3

For three people who are officially _together_ now, they aren’t actually together all that often. Working as a Scoutmaster is a full-time job to begin with, but the Boy Scouts of America has been handing out an unprecedented number of red envelopes lately to make up for those lost in the attack on StrexCorp, and Earl’s left scrambling to organize the new troops. Interns at NVCR are in short supply for the same reason, and Cecil takes it upon himself to pick up the slack, which mostly involves cavorting around town and gathering the news that went unreported since the yellow helicopters first arrived. Carlos is spending a nearly obscene amount of time at the lab, working on a new paper on transdimensional physics that he thinks might actually be publishable outside of Night Vale-- though according to Cecil, his hours haven’t actually deviated too far from the norm.

He got an especially good lead, apparently. He’s spent the last two days talking about a Dr. Qiu and his work in fields Earl can neither spell nor pronounce, and how he’s finally gotten municipal approval for a video conference.

Which, theoretically, should be over by now.

“Do you want me to go check up on him?” Earl asks as he hangs his campaign hat by the door. “He’ll be all right.” Cecil’s voice trails from the kitchen. “His call is probably just running late. Come help me with dinner.”

Earl quirks up an eyebrow, but takes off his boots. Every possible crease and crevice in the leather is packed full of sand, and it takes some tapping and brushing before the worst of it spills out onto the porch. He’d leave the boots on the front step, but one of the hooded figures has been snatching unguarded leather goods lately while hissing something about offerings to a woman in Italy.

For his part, Earl is quite happy for the hooded figure. It’s always nice seeing people pursue romance, even there are less intrusive ways of procuring presents for your crush.

He glances at the microwave clock on his way into the kitchen. It takes him a moment to translate the runes (unmodified Sumerian always gave him trouble in school) but he still gathers that it’s later than he expected to get home tonight.

“Are you sure he’s all right? He said the call would only last a few hours.” And it had started at almost six in the morning, thanks to issues with time zones.

“I packed him something for dinner before he left this morning,” Cecil says with a shrug. “Don’t worry. Carlos can get creative about words like ‘a few’ when he gets too deep into a project. I’ll make sure to drop off some breakfast for him on my way to work tomorrow. Do you think you can take care of lunch?”

Earl gapes at him. Missing one meal is understandable. But _three_? “Is he actually going to sleep any time soon?”

“‘Soon’ is another one of those flexible words.” He says it with the patient humor of someone who’s learned a lesson the hard way. It isn’t bitter or even wistful-- just a fact-- but Earl can’t quite keep the frown off his face.

Sure, things are hectic these days, but even if one of them gets held up, there are always at least two people home for dinner on any given night. And that’s the way it needs to be. The house gets too quiet for just one person, and Earl’s all too familiar with the effect quiet has on Cecil.

Earl is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Cecil getting closer until he’s right in front of him, his hands braced against the counter on either side of Earl’s hips. He doesn’t have a chance to voice his surprise before Cecil leans flush against him and kisses him, hard and rough, full on the lips.

Earl freezes. His mind is racing and frozen all at once. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so they hang awkwardly in the air, stuck between dragging Cecil closer and grabbing the counter for support. His lungs burn, entirely empty, and he’s forced to pull away entirely too soon. Cecil’s kissed him before, but always chaste and sweet and appropriate for easing into a new relationship. Never like _that_.

When he glances up, Cecil’s grin is positively devilish. “Stop worrying already, tough guy, and help me set the table.”

* * *

This isn’t just dinner.

This is a _date_.

Truth be told, Earl’s transition from ‘single’ to ‘in a relationship’ has been a pretty subtle one. Yes, there was more touching involved, more affection, those experiments with Carlos (the thought sends a pleasant tingle up his spine)-- but in a lot of ways he’s still felt like an outsider. Cecil and Carlos had been a couple for half a year before he showed up at their door. They’re synced to one another’s moods and habits so well they sometimes feel like a single unit, while Earl scrambles to find a place to fit.

But tonight is different. He’s no longer outnumbered or lagging behind inside jokes and shared memories. He and Cecil stand on equal footing-- er, as equal as they’re going to get, anyway. Because Cecil has a habit of mouthing at sorghum breadsticks that has Earl blushing and stammering and repeating the same sentence three times in a row.

And judging by that smug grin on his face, the beautiful bastard knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

“Earl.” He says his name like he could twirl it around one of those long, slender fingers, and Earls’ mouth goes dry. “Are you done eating? You haven’t touched your plate in…” He licks the seasoning off the shaft-- er, length-- of his breadstick in his hand. “Five minutes?”

Earl seems to have forgotten how to swallow. “I’m good.”

“That’s too bad.” Cecil puts down the offending side dish and tilts his head to the side. “I’m still hungry.”

 _Sweet Spire_.

He never understood the way deer freeze when they’re caught in headlights, but he does now. The set of Cecil’s shoulders is downright predatory as he rises from the table. He doesn’t walk forward so much as _stalk_ , his eyes stormy and focused as he grabs Earl by the collar and pulls him up to meet him.

Earl’s pretty sure he left his stomach back on the chair. His heart is racing, his palms are sweating, but _Masters_ , Cecil is kissing him like he needs him to breathe. He crowds him back, past the chair and into the wall, and Earl is struck dumb by the glorious pressure of Cecil pushing against him.

Those graceful hands are all over him, groping and fondling and pulling off clothes, and suddenly he pulls back with a wicked grin.

“This.” He traces his finger over the fleur-de-lis tattooed over Earl’s heart. “I remember when you got this.”

It isn’t the same one-- the original tattoo didn’t survive him losing his body-- but it’s close enough, and the memory makes Earl smile. “Gods, we were still in high school back then. I’d just gotten my Eagle _Scout_!” His voice leaps a few octaves when Cecil runs his tongue across the outline of the tattoo.

“You were saying?” Cecil pulls back to fix him with a look, and dear Masters, Earl knows where this is going.

“I-- uh-- we were sixteen.” He yelps as Cecil resumes licking him, but manages to keep his composure. “And-- uh-- you interviewed me. About it. For your internship at the station.”

“Mm-hm.” The hummed reply vibrates exquisitely into the bottom of Earl’s rib cage, and he shudders.

“It… ah… it was your first real story. For the radio. You were gonna write it up and everything, and you were so excited.” And he can see it now: a younger Cecil, his eyes wide and bright, chattering about how great it was going to be and how they were both going to grow up to be so important and it would be so neat. “Gods, I was so in love with you.”

“Hm?” Cecil punctuates the question by sucking at Earl’s hip bone, just hard enough to send a sweet thrill dancing up Earl’s spine.

“ _Ohhhhhhh_ yes.” He throws his head back as Cecil moves lower and envelops his member in sweet hot suction. He can barely think anymore, but he keeps babbling. “You were so-- so beautiful. I had to sit on my hands the entire interview to keep from touching you. I wanted your hands all over me. I wanted to taste you. I wanted to get you inside me on top of that table, right there with the tape recorder running, so I could play it back and hear you fucking me over and over and over again.”

Cecil pulls off of him with an obscene pop, and fixes him with a stare that makes his stomach jump.

“Would you like that, Earl?” He slides one hand up Earl’s thigh and rests it in the cleft of his ass.

A shaky nod, and Cecil pulls away for just a moment. There's a sound of tearing plastic, and a slick finger slides into him, circling and slowly stretching. Any discomfort he might have felt is washed away when Cecil wraps his lips around him and swallows him down.

Earl gasps and writhes, struggling not to buck into Cecil’s mouth, but Cecil’s three fingers in and he’s so _full_ he can’t take it.

“So tell me, my sweet, brave Earl…” He spreads his fingers and sends lightning arcing up Earl’s spine. “Would you like to take this to the bedroom? Or do you want to keep going right here?”

Earl tries to speak-- to beg-- but his breath hitches and his tongue trips over the words. All he can manage is a desperate whine.

Cecil flicks his tongue over Earl’s cock one last time and draws his fingers out of his ass, and Earl chokes back a sob. After that glorious pressure, the sudden emptiness is unbearable.

“Turn around, Scoutmaster Harlan. I want to see that beautiful ass of yours.”

Earl doesn’t have words for how grateful he is-- the bed upstairs seems impossibly far away right now, and he doesn’t think he could stand being alone and empty that long-- but he hurries to obey, bracing himself against the wall.

“You’ve got such a gorgeous body, Earl.” Cecil climbs to his feet, running his hands up and down the contours of Earl’s back, separating his thighs, pulling his hips into the air, stroking his stomach, dancing across his cock and slicking up his own. “I could look at you for hours.” He leans forward, his breath hot in Earl’s ear. “But you don’t want me to just look, do you, Earl?”

Earl whimpers. If Cecil keeps this up any longer he’s going to lose his mind.

“What do you want, Earl?”

He shakes his head.

“Tell. Me. What. You. Want.” His wet cock traces circles around Earl’s entrance-- agonizingly close but not where he needs to be.

“You! I want you inside me-- Cecil, Cecil, I want--” He breaks into a wordless cry as Cecil rams inside him all at once. Every nerve is on edge, dancing on that exquisite line between pleasure and pain. “Gods, Cecil, please do that ag--” He can’t even finish the word before Cecil draws back and slams into him again, sending exquisite lightning through him. He doesn’t need to ask again; Cecil’s pumping into him at a dizzying pace, gripping Earl’s hips for leverage.

Earl’s elbows fold, and he’s bracing against the wall with his forearms, his head hitting the buffer of his hand with every thrust. On some level he’s aware of the sounds coming out of his mouth-- howls and moans and strings of nonsense words that probably aren’t in any Earthly language.

Cecil’s hips slam into Earl’s ass with an ever more frantic rhythm, faster and more erratic with each beat. A desperate hand closes around his cock and starts pumping him like his life depended on it.

“Come for me, Earl,” Cecil growls-- gods, that sound is barely human anymore. His grip tightens almost painfully and his voice drops deeper than Earl’s ever heard it: _“Gods, I love you.”_

Orgasm crashes through him like thunder, loud and sharp and overwhelming, and he comes in hot white splashes into Cecil’s hand.

The details get fuzzy after that point. He remembers sinking to his knees, Cecl folded against his back and whispering love and praise into his shoulderblades. He remembers Cecil gently cleaning him with a wet washcloth and holding a glass of cool water to his chapped lips. He remembers being wrapped in blankets, warm in bed, while Cecil kissed his shoulder. He remembers those things clearly, but they’re disjointed from one another, like points of starlight in the void. The rest is mere feeling: contentment. safety. warmth. love.

There’ll be a mess in the morning-- showers to take, dishes to clean up, post-coital soreness to deal with, and a probably-sleep-deprived Carlos to coax away from the lab long enough for food and rest-- but those are concerns for another time.

For now he’s got everything he ever wanted.

For now, everything is perfect.


	4. After a long day(s) of science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice fluffy chapter, because relationships aren't all sex all the time.
> 
> This installment was beta'd by the phenomenal Dangersocks.

Cecil is putting on the weather for the night when his phone vibrates. Just a single short buzz, and then silence-- a Morse code E. A second text follows right after.

**Can you come to the lab after your show?**

**We’ll need the car.**

The weather is almost finished when he receives another pair:

**I love you.**

**Carlos says he loves you too.**

He ends his show with a short soliloquy on the meaning of existence, and packs his things before the outro music has finished playing.

“Guess what?” He singsongs as he climbs into the Hybrid Coupe. The dashboard flickers questioningly. “We’re going to stop by the lab to see _Car-los_!”

All at once the car’s engine roars to life, and it fidgets like a dog wagging its tail. It’s been days since Carlos left for his conference call, and he’s only actually been outside the lab once since then, to assure his frantic car that he hadn’t disappeared again. Granted, Cecil isn’t actually sure what Earl texted about, but there’s no reason why they can’t drag Carlos out to see the poor vehicle for a few minutes at least.

It practically zips down the few miles between the studio and the road, and starts doing donuts around a street light when they arrive at the lab.

“You wait here,” he instructs as he gets out. “I’ll be right back.”

Though maybe ‘right back’ was a bit optimistic.

The lab is… awful. It doesn’t look like a warzone, thank the Spire, but it reeks of stale food and congealed coffee and body odor and, as he gets closer, Febreze. That last one looks like it’s Earl’s doing. He’s bustling about the lab, carefully gathering up used napkins, empty tupperware containers and the several dozen coffee mugs. The ones scrawled with complex formulas are carefully placed in a box labeled “Science: Do Not Disturb”, while the rest are piled in the lab’s sink and sprayed with disinfectant.

“Cecil!” Earl’s face brightens almost instantly. “I’m almost done here. Do you think you can get him into the car?” His hands are full, and so he gestures to the corner with his a jerk of his head. Carlos is slumped in one of the lab chairs, wrapped in a dirty labcoat and staring blankly into space. His beautiful hair is oily and disheveled, his eyes are puffy and lined with dark circles, and his occasional stubble has matured into the patchy beginnings of a beard. He blinks, confused, as Cecil approaches him. His eyes take a moment to focus, but when he does, his lips part in a dopey smile.

“Cecil. Hey. Earl’s here.” His words are so slurred, Cecil would have expected to smell liquor on his breath. He doesn’t, but Carlos could probably use a few minutes alone with a toothbrush, or at least some mouthwash.

“Yes, he is,” Cecil says gently. “How did the call go?”

“Good. Very good. Doctor Qiu is a funny guy. He told me this joke… he said…” His whole face scrunches in concentration. “I forget. It was funny, though. You’d laugh.”

“I bet I would, dear Carlos,” Cecil murmurs, wrapping one arm around the scientist’s waist and helping him to his feet. “Let’s get you into the car. Maybe you’ll remember it on the way home.”

The Coupe whines its concern when he pours Carlos into the back seat and helps him with the seat belt. It always gets fretful when Carlos gets like this.

“It’s all right.” Cecil gives the car a gentle pat. “He’s just tired, that’s all. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

Marathon science sessions aren’t exactly new for Carlos, but this is the second-worst Cecil’s ever seen him. He thinks so, anyway. The only time that counts as ‘worse’ is mostly a hazy blur in Cecil’s mind, a collection of disjointed sensations in the midst of a drug-induced fog. Carlos refused to tell him just how long he’d spent working on an antiserum for StrexCorp’s ‘mandatory productivity-enhancing vitamins’-- only that it left him with new worry lines and a fresh dusting of gray at his temples.

The haze and oblivious delight wore off faster than the manic hyperness, and Cecil has a few leftover memories of darting fretfully around his exhausted boyfriend, tucking him in and interrupting his rest every few minutes to offer him food and tea and foot rubs.

That was a long time ago, though, and their relationship had been relatively new. He’s since become a bit of a master at taking care of his scientist. Besides, now he has help.

It’s not long before Earl emerges from the lab looking anxious-- no, _concerned_. He motions Cecil over to him, just out of earshot of the Coupe and its scientist. “Is he going to be okay? His pulse was doing all sorts of crazy things when I checked it. He said he didn’t need the hospital or anything, but he’s…” He shrugs uneasily. “He’s from Outside, you know?”

The worry on his face is enough to make Cecil’s heart melt. Carlos isn’t the first Outsider to move to Night Vale, but he is one of the longest lived in the little town’s history-- and that’s including the time he spent officially dead.

Cecil rises on the balls of his feet to kiss Earl’s forehead. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “He’s not as fragile as all that.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

“Not nearly as much as it used to.” He wraps his arms around Earl’s shoulders and tilts their heads together. “He’ll be okay. He’s got us to take care of him.”

* * *

 

The ride home is quiet. Earl is in that mode where he watches everything and tries to figure it all out, Carlos is in the zombie-like state between dazed and nodding off, and Cecil finds himself narrating to fill the silence.

“We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

“Did you see the new traffic signs? I think the new color palette is much nicer than the old one. Very subtle.”

“Are either of you hungry? I’m feeling a little peckish, myself.”

The Coupe purrs appreciatively when they pull into the garage, apparently satisfied that all three of its humans are safe at home.

Carlos is awake enough to try getting out of the car, but sleep deprivation hasn’t exactly left him nimble. He fumbles and loses his balance twice before Earl ducks in beside him and half-lifts, half-pulls him out.

Cecil’s face heats just watching them. The gesture is like something out of a storybook, but without the tragic, blood-spattered endings.

But he’s supposed to be helping, not just ogling his boyfriends. He grabs their things and hurries to open the garage door while Earl shepherds Carlos inside, catching him when he stumbles and steadying him when he starts to sway. He sits him down at the dining table and kneels at his feet to help him out of his shoes and socks.

“No,” Carlos slurs. “Issokay. I got it.” He wobbles and tips forward, catching himself just inches before his head collides with Earl’s.

“Don’t worry,” Earl says softly, cupping Carlos’ face with one hand. He brushes his thumb over the lovely darkness of his cheekbone, and then gently eases him back upright. “We’re going to take good care of you. Okay?”

“M’kaay.”

This time, Cecil’s not the only one blushing.

Cecil discreetly captures the moment in a photograph on the way to the kitchen, and returns with three bowls of chili from the crock pot (a ‘happy polyamorous relationship’ present from Old Woman Josie, who’s a stickler for traditions like that). Dinner, like the drive, is quiet, but Carlos seems to wake up somewhat once he gets some food in him. He’s forming complete sentences now, even if they are considerably shorter than usual, and he even manages to wobble upstairs to brush his teeth on his own.

When Cecil pokes his head in to check on him, Carlos chuckles wearily. “Good Goddard, Cecil. You could’ve told me how bad I smell. And look at my hair!” He runs his fingers through his normally-flawless locks, which are so weighed down and clumped by oil that they resemble blackened spaghetti.

Cecil slips inside the bathroom and kisses his forehead. “Your hair is perfect, Carlos. Always.”

“Still could use a wash, though.” He glances at Cecil from under lowered lids. “Help me?”

“Of course, my dear, sweet, beautiful Carlos.” Cecil punctuates each word with a kiss and murmurs a few quick chants to start the bathwater flowing before he slides the lab coat off Carlos’ shoulders.

He’s halfway through pulling Carlos’ pants down his thighs when Earl walks past the still-open door.

The Scoutmaster freezes, then gapes, then looks confused, then gapes some more. Finally his helpful nature kicks in. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Cecil says, bringing the pants down to the ankles. “Just washing up before bed. Hold him steady for me?”

Earl blushes crimson and swallows a few times, but he manages to wrap his arms around Carlos’ bare chest. “This okay?”

“Perfect.” Cecil notes with some satisfaction the way Earl’s fingers glide over Carlos’ chest, the way Carlos’ dick twitches under his boxers when he leans into Earl’s support.

There’s a hiss of pleasure as Carlos lowers himself into the bath. The hot, bubbly water laps luxuriously against his skin. Cecil settles onto the edge of the tub at his shoulder, and for a long moment he indulges in the view. Even if tonight is reserved for comfort and quiet, there are few sights he enjoys more than Carlos relaxed, soapy and soaking wet.

Earl clears his throat awkwardly. “Should I…?”

“If you want,” Carlos says. The answer is true no matter what question he’s answering.

After a moment of thought, Earl pulls off his uniform shirt and neckerchief and sits on the edge of the tub beside Cecil.

Oh look. There’s another one of his favorite sights.

“Is there anything I should know?” Earl asks.

Always the perfect Boy Scout, Cecil thinks fondly. He pours a handful of hot water over Carlos’ hair and watches it cascade down his back. “This is sort of a tradition with us. When one of us has had a particularly long day, or been reeducated, or… anything, really…”

He squeezes a swirl of lavender shampoo into his palm and works it into his boyfriend’s hair. Carlos leans into the scalp massage like a cat into a good scratch; he even makes a rough, pleased sound not entirely unlike a purr. Meanwhile Earl, awkward and fidgeting and adorable, soaps up a washcloth and runs it studiously over Carlos’ body. Every few seconds he murmurs another refrain of “is this okay?” as he moves on to a new spot, and every time Carlos hums his assent.

“If there’s a heaven,” Carlos murmurs, while Earl runs clean water over his chest and Cecil slicks conditioner into his hair, “This is it.”


	5. Like patches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos and Earl have some bonding time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references events that happened in chapter 8 of Whispers in the Dark. The context is pretty much explained, but if you need a refresher, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1080221/chapters/2239690

It’s finished. The paper is written and submitted for review, and now there’s nothing left but to wait and see what happens.

It feels like being back in school, honestly: the adrenaline-driven rush to get everything done, the crash immediately after, and then that restless silence while people who claim to know better pass their judgement on your work.

It leaves Carlos very much in need of a distraction, and this late in the evening, that means Mythbusters.

Carlos always gets a bit clingy on nights like this-- without someone else nearby to keep him grounded, he’ll wind up pacing the floor and agonizing over every possible interpretation of every data point. Cecil’s working late tonight, covering the annual man-eating snail races, but Earl’s home, and he’s more than happy to sit and watch with him. It’s easier to relax with him here, commenting on the experiments, predicting the which myths get busted, and absently playing with Carlos’ hair.

It’s nice.

His head is nestled against Earl’s pectoral, the muscle pliant in its relaxed state, and from this position he can hear the slow, steady, soothing rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You’ve got a nice chest,” he comments absently. It occurs to him a moment later that that might be weird, but--

“Thank you. Your hair really is as nice as Cecil says.”

\--but this is Earl Harlan: so polite he makes Canada look like Desert Bluffs. Carlos can’t help a surge of fondness for the Scoutmaster.

“Yours isn’t half bad, either,” he says, sitting up to ruffle Earl’s copper locks, but he falters.

The scars on Earl’s neck are especially visible in this light, almost silver in the dimness.

Earl quirks an eyebrow. “What, do I have something on my neck?” He reaches behind his head, but his fingers only brush the faint raised marks. “Oh. Is that what’s bothering you?”

Carlos pulls away as a wave of guilt washes over him. He did that to Earl. He’d carved into his neck with a scalpel, with barely a thought toward anesthetic-- he’d seriously considered paralyzing him at the time. The memory is enough to turn his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “About… that.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Earl asks, wide-eyed with surprise. “You’re not the one who put that thing in my neck. If you hadn’t taken it out on your own, I would’ve asked you to.”

Except that doesn’t make it okay. Carlos didn’t know that at the time-- and worse, he didn’t care. A part of him wants to explain, to make Earl understand exactly how messed up that was. Another part of him wants to hold back. If Earl doesn’t want to be horrified and outraged, then it’s hardly Carlos’ place to tell him how he should feel. And another part entirely wants Earl not to hate him.

“I could have been… gentler about it,” he says helplessly. “I could at least have done something to reduce the scarring.”

“We were kind of in a hurry,” Earl points out. “And then you got yourself zapped out of existence. That's not something to feel guilty about.” He shrugs, and the subject is officially closed to discussion. “Besides, I kind of like scars. They’re like patches on a Scout uniform, you know?" He repositions himself around to get a better look at Carlos. "I was actually a bit disappointed that I lost all my childhood scars when I got my body back. There were a lot of memories there.”

Carlos frowns. “What about your tattoo? Wasn’t that old?”

“The original was.” Earl pops open a few shirt buttons to show off the fleur-de-lis over his heart, all crisp lines and bright colors. “I got it redone not too long after I started staying with you guys. I felt a little naked without it.” One hand drifts behind his head, and he absently fingers at the raised lines on his neck. “Normally, marks like that are memories nobody can take away from you. It doesn’t matter if the memory fades, or if you get re-educated, or if the City Council decrees that something didn’t happen. As long as you’ve got it written in your skin, you know it’s real.”

An innocent question later-- “you couldn’t have had that many scars, could you?”-- and Mythbusters is put on mute as Carlos listens, enraptured. Earl traces a line over the first finger of his left hand, etched in place by a lifetime of archery. He presses into the spot on his right calf where the muscle had once been cratered by rattlesnake venom, the necrotic tissue eaten away by medical maggots. He pulls back his shirt to trace the phantoms of three jagged scars from a nearly-disastrous trip to the library when he was a teenager.

In place of the old scars are new marks, though they’re fresher-- most of them are from the attack on StrexCorp. The one on his bicep is particularly vivid, a red line burn across the muscle where a bullet grazed him.

On a whim, Carlos leans in and presses his lips to the mark. And why not? They’re dating, and Earl is already half-undressed beside him. It seems like a reasonable thing to do.

Less so when he notices how suddenly rigid Earl just got.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Was that not okay?”

“No.” Earl clears his throat. “No, that was fine.”

A quick glance down confirms: there’s a tent in Earl’s pants that has nothing to do with Scouting.

“Good.” Deliberately Carlos leans down and kisses the scar again, this time keeping a close eye on Earl’s reaction. Judging by the blush that crosses the Scoutmaster’s face, the experiment is a success.

With Cecil, things like this are easy. He lets Carlos set the pace and make all the first moves, but he’s so vocal that it’s hard not to get an idea of what he likes.

Earl, though, is more like Carlos. Sex between them is less like a celebration and more like a conversation, full of “How’s this?” and “How do you feel about that?”

Carlos watches Earl’s face as he sweeps his hands up and down his body, noting the way his eyebrows jump and his lips part when he does something he likes. One spot in particular is especially sensitive-- an innocuous little area, just between his belly button and the jut of his hip bone.

He ghosts his fingertips over that sensitive little spot, and his own pulse spikes as he watches Earl twist beneath him. He really is gorgeous, especially when he’s relaxed and laid out like that. But now Carlos has an idea in his head, and he wouldn’t be much of a scientist if he didn’t experiment.

“So what you were saying before, about liking marks on your skin.”

“Mm-hm?”

“Does that sentiment extend to hickies?”

Earl’s eyes are blissfully shut as he nods, and so he doesn’t notice Carlos leaning down until he’s set his lips against that tender spot on his stomach. His hummed reply turns into a sharp hiss of breath as Carlos sucks mercilessly at the skin there, adding a flash of teeth for good measure. Earl’s abs tighten gloriously as he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Carlos.

“What are you doing?” he asks genuinely curious, his face red and his eyes blown wide.

“Science.” There’s no way he can be a half inch from that lovely musculature and not touch, so Carlos runs his lips indulgently over the lovely ripple of _rectus abdominus_.  “Any spots you particularly like to be touched?”

“Well, if it’s for science…” Earl barely manages to keep a straight face as he points out the curve of his waist and the stretch of skin underneath his collarbone, humming contentedly as Carlos sucks dark hickeys onto each in turn.

“And… here…” This time he sweeps his hand across his inner thigh.

“Both sides?” Carlos ask, before he draws the tender skin there between his teeth.

“Mm- _hmmmm_ …” His voice dips as Carlos presses his mouth against his leg, and the sound goes straight to his cock.

He nips at Earl’s other thigh, but the deep, languid moan doesn’t come until he’s nudged against it-- which gives Carlos some lovely ideas all by itself.

“You enjoy having your legs pushed apart like that?” he asks, applying steady pressure to the freshly-made hickies.

“Mmmvery much so…” Sweet Newton, he’s practically _purring_ , and Carlos can feel the flush rising to his face.

“You really like being on the receiving end, huh?”

When Earl looks at him this time, his pupils are wide, his lips are bright, and his voice is low and rough: “You have no idea.”

All other plans are officially on hold, because Carlos really, _really_ likes that one.

“Bedroom?”

“ _Please_.”

The transition is quick and efficient, and soon Earl peels off the last of his clothes while Carlos makes a beeline for the dresser.

“Any preferences with lube?” he asks. When he doesn’t get a response, he digs out one of his favorites. “We’ve got some warming stuff that’s really nice.”

“That sounds good.” Sweet statistical outliers, Earl’s stretched out on the bed and flushed all the way to the shoulders, and it’s short-circuiting Carlos’ higher brain functions.

“Condom?” he croaks. It’s more a courtesy than a necessity at the moment-- Night Vale deals so much with blood and viscera that he does regular blood tests on all three of them, just as a precaution, and he knows personally that they’re both fine.

“No, I’m-- I’m good. If you are.” The hesitation comes as an afterthought; Earl looks as eager and hopeful as a kid on Christmas morning.

A constellation of dark hickeys stands out against his freckles, and every last one marks a different way to make him come apart at the seams.

Carlos looks forward to exploring each and every one.

He kneels on the mattress and rubs a splash of lube between his hands to warm it. Hot, slick drops fall onto Earl’s stomach, and Carlos chases them with a sweep of his fingers. He’s not sure it has enough pressure to count as a massage, but Earl’s eyes are fluttering shut at the touch.

He has red eyelashes, the same shade as his hair. It’s a phenotype Carlos hasn’t had much of a chance to study, and there are moments when he thinks he could spend hours just observing every detail of the other man.

But now is not the time-- especially not when he’s groaning like _that_.

Carlos dips his hand lower, sliding a hand up and down Earl’s cock before he works at preparing him. Earl’s already nice and loose, but that doesn’t stop him from whimpering and writhing with every move of Carlos’ fingers.

“You all right, Earl?” he asks.

“Yes.” It comes out a gasp. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Carlos adds another finger, relishing the way Earl moans in response. “But I need you to tell me what you want, all right?”

Another hungry groan turns into a whine of protest as Carlos pulls his fingers out.

“Wait-- no, I need-- you can’t--” He’s panting as Carlos adds another layer of lube to his own member, just to be safe.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got you tongue-tied already.” He slides the head of his cock through that tight, slick hole, and every inch of Earl tenses up. “Relax for me, Earl. Just relax.” Slowly the muscles around him begin to unclench, and he moves in deeper, an inch at a time.

As soon as he’s settled he goes still, except to cup Earl’s face with one hand. “We’re going to go at your pace, okay? Tell me what you want. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes…” Carlos wouldn’t have caught the word in the moan if he wasn’t listening for it, and it sends heat pooling in the base of his spine.

“C’mon, Earl.” His breath is coming harder now. “Tell me how you like it.”

He’s pretty sure he won’t ever get tired of that needy look on Earl’s face.

“I want you to move,” Earl rasps, and Carlos begins the slow glide, back and forth-- “Harder.”

He hurries to obey, his blood on fire as Earl groans beneath him. “Please, Carlos. _Harder_.”

Holy shit, that’s hot. But he holds back. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

But Earl shakes his head. “Want you to. I want you to pound me so hard I can’t walk--” He gasps as Carlos’ hips snap forward. “Just like that! Fuck-- Carlos-- I want to feel you everywhere I go. I want to remember you like this every time I sit down. I want-- ah!”

There’s no room for restraint anymore. Carlos doesn’t just thrust anymore, he’s full on pistoning into him, each impact punctuated by another desperate gasp. Earl’s hands are clawed into the mattress like he’s holding on for dear life, and fuck, Carlos can’t contain himself for much longer. He repositions himself just slightly, takes aim-- and then Earl absolutely _howls_ , and he knows he’s hit the jackpot.

He grabs at Earl’s thighs, pushes them almost past the limits of human anatomy-- holy shit, he had no idea how flexible the other man could be-- and drives himself in, again and again, each ecstatic shout ratcheting him higher until he can’t even think straight.

Abruptly that sweet heat clenches around him. Earl is coming in white splashes across his chest, his head thrown back, his eyes wide with rapture. That look is almost enough to push Carlos over the edge all by itself, but the sudden pressure on his cock finishes the job. He comes hard and heavy, pressed tight against Earl as orgasm roars through him.

They’re still intertwined by the time the shaking subsides and their breathing settles into a slow, even rhythm.

“Was that--?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Earl looks like he’s a degree or two shy of melting into the mattress. “You?”

“Me too.”

 


	6. The Kangaroo Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys work together to save the town.

“Listeners, we have a special bulletin.” Cecil’s sonorous voice drifts over from the line of storefronts. It’s quiet, but Earl can still make out the individual words between the thunderous footfalls moving down the street. “It seems a giant rodent has scurried out of the subway system-- which is still closed, by the way, and the City Council reminds you to stay clear of its transdimensional entrances and exits-- and is currently rampaging through Old Town. Scoutmaster Earl Harlan is bravely in pursuit of the creature because, as everybody knows, Labor Day is a government holiday, and the Sheriff’s Secret Police is collectively taking the day off to spend time with friends and family.

“I would like to take a moment to remind listeners that it’s okay for me to share this news story, as it is legitimately news, and doesn’t count as oversharing of personal details just because I’m in a relationship with involved individuals. Said individual’s involvement is purely coincidental, so Carlos, Earl, and Station Management can all relax.”

There’s a moment of silence as Cecil stops for breath. In that same moment, Earl’s side pocket bursts into song.

 _Shitshitshitshitshit_ \--

An ear the size of a commercial satellite dish swivels to face him; a massive whiskered nose begins twitching.

Earl flattens himself against the wall he’s hiding against, absurdly glad he’s still downwind of the beast as he scrambles to grab his phone out of his pocket.

It’s Carlos, but this really isn’t a good time. He dismisses the call with one of those automatic courtesy texts:

_I’m very sorry I can’t talk right now, but there’s currently an existential and/or highly inconvenient threat to the town._

Ah, the wonders of technology.

The phone buzzes in his hands once with a return text from the scientist:

_What kind of rodent?_

Earl spares a glance around the corner at the thing.

_Kangaroo rat._

_Trying to trap it now._

He’s spent the last twenty minutes tying a snare out of telephone cables and setting up a trough of just-past-expired vegetables from the Ralph’s for bait. All he can do at the moment is to wait. He’s in the middle of fixing the sound settings on his phone when Cecil’s voice draws his attention.

“It seems the tensile strength of the telephone cable just wasn’t up to the task. According to Intern Bethany, who is stationed atop a telephone pole with a pair of binoculars, the giant rodent has just chewed through the snare with its massive, razor-sharp teeth. Earl, if you can hear me, _be careful._ ”

It doesn’t take long for the Scoutmaster to spot the intern at the end of the street, well out of the way of the rodent’s rampage. He flashes her a thumbs up, and she nods enthusiastically before ducking to send a text of her own.

Ahead the kangaroo rat is scurrying-- no, _hopping_ \-- toward City Hall, leaving craters in the wake of every rattling footfall.

Earl sighs and pulls the assault rifle off his back. It’s a shame the trap didn’t work; the kangaroo rat really would have made a fine addition to the Night Vale Zoo.

He steps out of his cover and unloads a magazine into the rodent. It stiffens, shudders-- and then turns on him. It’s enormous-- at least the size of an elephant, maybe more.

It bears down on him, its ears flattened against its skull and its teeth bared, while he struggles to reload.

“Intern Bethany has just uploaded a picture of Earl fighting the kangaroo rat to Facebook. Also, the NRA has just released two statements: “See? We told you guns didn’t kill people!” and “This could all have been avoided if _certain individuals_ had only lifted that ban on anti-tank weapons and elephant guns.”

The kangaroo rat lunges, and he rolls away just in time to avoid its arm-sized incisors. But now he’s on the ground, half-crawling back as it’s heading down.

_Think of something think of something come on he has to--_

“I just got a text from Carlos! He says, ‘a mammal with that mass is going to have a hard time regulating its internal temperature. That’s why it waited until after sundown to come out from underground: it’s going to be highly susceptible to overheating’.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Earl is touched: Carlos is usually pretty good about translating science-speak into layman’s English, unless he’s stressed. If he’s babbling now, it’s because he’s worried for him.

Of course, the greater part of his mind is occupied with remembering which pocket he left the can of bug spray. In a flash his fingers close around the spray can, while the other hand closes around a Zippo lighter (just because he can make a fire with a flint and tinder doesn’t mean it’s always the best method).

A flick, a squeeze, and a fireball erupts between himself and the kangaroo rat. It rears back with an ear-splitting squeal, running its paws over its singed whiskers. Earl hits it with a second blast of flame, and this time the creature’s side catches fire. Howling, it races down the road before finally disappearing into the sand wastes in a blaze of light.

Earl slumps backward, taking a moment of post-victory rest. Maybe more than a moment, because the next time he opens his eyes, Carlos is hovering over him. He recognizes the standard procedure-- wiggle your toes, look into the flashlight, follow my finger with your eyes, did you hit your head?--but he’s a bit less familiar with the way Carlos helps him to his feet and eases him into the Coupe. The car whines, all loyal concern, until Earl gives it a reassuring pat on the dashboard.

“I’m okay,” he assures the car and driver both. “Just a bit tired. That’s all.”

Earl is a Scoutmaster; he’s self-sufficient and always prepared. But there are little things that get lost, sometimes, when you’re always self-sufficient. Little luxuries that you never think about.

Things like having a ride home after a long day of town-saving, so he doesn’t have to walk. Things like Cecil’s flare for the overly-dramatic as he meets them at the door, like Earl’s just been to war, rather than doing a bit of pest control. Things like gentle hands helping him out of his clothes and into a warm bath.

When he’s out of the water, Cecil fawns over him, applying ointment and burn cream and disinfectant to the various little injuries Earl’s sustained, while the heady aroma of rogan josh wafts from the kitchen.

“It’s all right,” Earl mumbles half-heartedly. “You don’t have to worry, I’ve got it.” But Cecil insists, and Earl doesn’t fight too hard against Cecil running his hands up and down his body like that.

Oh yes. He could most definitely get used to this.


	7. Scientific Precision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All three of them finally have sex together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but the next one won't take so long.

Earl’s stretched across the bed on his back, tense in anticipation. He’s already got himself in hand-- maybe that’s cheating, but he’s using up all his self-restraint in simply not pulling Cecil down on top of him.

The radio host is on his hands and knees, his smooth tan stomach jumping and twisting barely an inch above Earl’s erect cock. His eyes roll back and flutter shut, his mouth gapes open, his whole face contorts beautifully as Carlos works him open one finger at a time.

This whole process is slow, delicate. It requires scientific precision and an engineer’s creative flexibility, so naturally Carlos is in charge of putting it all together. Earl is the tallest and strongest of the three, the best suited for bearing the weight of two adult men on top of him. And Cecil-- well, nobody wants to silence that gorgeous voice of his.

Cecil’s currently begging-- “Oh please, oh Carlos-- Earl-- I can’t stand it anymore, somebody _please_!”-- but the cascade of words falters into a whine as Carlos pulls his hand away.

“You’re good,” Carlos whispers into his ear, taking Cecil by the hips and slowly lowering him down. “You’re so good for me. So very good. And I’m gonna take good care of you, Cecil. We both are. Isn’t that right?”

Cecil looks to Earl for confirmation, but the Scoutmaster can only nod mutely back at him. Cecil’s hair is disheveled beautifully fucked, his eyes are lust-blown and hazy, his breath is coming in raw gasps that make Earl’s skin crawl in all the best ways. Then there’s another hand on his cock-- Carlos’ hand-- guiding him and lining him up perfectly to Cecil’s entrance, like pieces to a puzzle.

Cecil pushes down, slow and steady, and Earl can only throw his head back at the _sweethotgoodtightness_ of Cecil around him.

“Everything okay?” Carlos asks, and he might have passed for clinical if not for the way he’s breathing, like an asthmatic trying desperately not to pass out.

“Good,” Earl says. “All good.” And he adds a tiny nod, just in case Carlos can’t hear him over the litany of “so good, so full, oh gods,” coming from Cecil.

And then Carlos climbs onto the bed, the last piece of their puzzle. He crawls on top of Earl, hovering over him the way Cecil had just moments before-- but reversed. Rather than his strong jaw and perfect hair, Earl gets a very different view: a tapered waist, the long lines of abs and thighs all pointing, like an arrow, in the same direction. Fine, dark hair grows thicker as it sweeps down to surround a lovely cock. Earl reaches up and smooths his hands along Carlos’ sides, tracing over the bumps of ribs, the soft stretch of abdomen, the solid lines of pelvic bone, the swell of ass. He draws his head up, mouth open in invitation, as he pulls Carlos’ down to him.

The scientist is delicious-- musky and sweet and already salty with precome-- and he gasps beautifully as Earl wraps his lips around his head. He can’t see anything but dark thighs and darker hair, but he can feel Carlos curling forward, hear Cecil gasp and moan as Carlos takes him into his mouth.

“Everything-- oh gods-- are you both okay?” Cecil’s barely coherent anymore, and they’ve only just started.

Earl hums a full-mouthed “Mm-hmm” in reply, perversely pleased at the way Carlos’ thighs jerk in response. The scientist’s confirmation comes in the form of a quick nod that shakes him all over, and Earl gives his ass an affectionate squeeze.

“Okay,” Cecil says, breathless. “Good. Good. Here we-- I’m--”

Earl can feel him start to move, even if Cecil, for once, can’t find the words to narrate. His hips roll beautifully as he rocks between Earl’s cock and Carlos’ mouth.

“Carlos-- Earl-- Oh gods-- you’re both so beautiful-- so perfect-- oh _yes_ , keep doing that--”

Earl wraps his hands around Carlos’ hipbones and lifts, gently, slowly. He could probably lift Carlos entirely from this angle, but this is no time for sudden moves. He raises Carlos just enough to pull off his cock, pulling him back down to lick a long stripe down the shaft, and then to suck at the richly textured skin that surrounds his balls. Carlos whimpers and squirms with every change, prompting a desperate cry from Cecil.

“Oh shit! Earl-- Earl, whatever you’re doing, keep doing that-- oh please-- oh-- Carlos--”

Emboldened, Earl takes a chance and snaps his hips, and Cecil positively howls. What order they had falls apart, their mechanical precision giving way to desperate grasping and grinding, struggling for balance, holding on for dear life as they writhe against one another. Earls’ fingers dig into Carlos’ hips as he tries to pull him closer, as he sucks and fucks and swallows--

He isn’t sure who comes first, whether he tastes precious bitter salt sliding down his throat before he explodes into Cecil, or at what point Cecil’s shouts of ecstasy become the screams of orgasm. All he knows is that at some point, Carlos rolls off of him to one side, Cecil to the other, and moments later they’re lying on either side of him, fucked out and sweating.

“That,” he rasps-- his throat is sore, but he can’t bring himself to mind. “That was good.”

“Uh-huh.” Beside him, Cecil wraps an arm around him and Carlos both and hugs them closer together.

“Definitely doing that again.” 


	8. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil is called in for re-education, and Carlos is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted tonight because 1) both this chapter and the previous one are hella short, 2) I just got back from the Night Vale live show and I'm stoked, and 3) DangerSocks gave me this prompt and it's entirely too lovely to leave alone.

The front lawn breaks out into the Bonanza theme when Cecil steps past the threshold of their property, but for once the jaunty tune doesn’t lift his spirits.

“How the hell did this happen?” Carlos’ shout carries easily through the open window and over the singing grass. “After everything that happened-- after everything we went through--”

Earl’s voice interrupts him, too low to be heard from this distance, and it sends Carlos shouting once again.

The notice from the Sheriff’s Secret Police crumples in Cecil’s hand. This is one of the advantages to announcing the details of your personal life on the airwaves: there’s no time wasted in awkwardly breaking the news to anybody, and he gets a nice little buffer zone while his loved ones process whatever he’s decided to reveal.

Of course, that’s a bit more complicated these days than it used to be. Before now, he didn’t have to worry about anybody’s initial reactions-- now, it sounds like Earl is the one stuck facing the consequences.

He takes a moment to berate himself-- _foolish Cecil!_ \-- but not a long one. He’s already spent enough time doing that at the station. No, he needs to face this.

“Carlos, that’s just the way it is,” Earl says on the opposite side of the door, as soothing and gentle as if he were talking down a spooked tarantula.

 _“Well it shouldn’t be!_ ” comes the retort that-- if Cecil didn’t know him better-- might possibly frighten him.

He pushes open the door, and at once the room goes quiet. Earl and Carlos are facing off in the center of the living room, like they’re trying to crowd each other into opposite corners and stuck in the middle. Carlos too angry to back down, Earl too steadfast to let himself be pushed. At the sight of Cecil, Earl flashes a small, supportive smile. “Hey, Cecil. Welcome home.”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair. By the look of his well-swept locks, he’s been doing a lot of that recently.

“Hi.” No escaping that awkwardness, is there? “I guess you two heard, huh?”

“Of course we heard,” Earl says, at the same time that Carlos declares “There has to be a way to appeal this. After everything--”

“No, Carlos,” Cecil says gently.

“But--”

“I’m going to be all right. I’ve been re-educated before, you know.”

“I know!” The despair in Carlos’ face is so painful that Cecil has to look away. “I’ve seen what it does to you, Cecil, and you’re _not fine_ afterward. You’re-- it’s not humane what they keep doing to you-- it’s not ethical--” He’s blinking back tears, his face is flushed, his breathing sharp and shallow. “You get re-educated more than anyone else in town, and the things it does to you-- it’ll be a miracle if you haven’t already suffered permanent brain damage as a result-- one of these days-- one of these days they’re going to go too far and you’ll--”

Carlos’ mouth opens and shuts, but words don’t come anymore.

Cecil doesn’t remember crossing the floor-- one moment he was standing in the doorway and the next he’s across the room, pulling Carlos’ head to his shoulder and rubbing his hands in soothing patterns across his back.

He regrets his announcement. He should have been here to calm Carlos down. To tell him it would be okay.

He should have been here.

After the fact, all he can do is hold his boyfriend tight and keep his voice steady. “It’s going to be all right, Carlos,” he whispers into the other man’s hair. “I’m going to be fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.” He pulls back to hold him at arm’s length. “Because I know I’ve got the two of you here to take care of me.”

It isn’t some empty platitude, either. Not when Earl is looking at him like that, silently promising a private conversation in the solitude of the closet if he needs to talk. Not when Carlos is so fiercely protective that he looks ready to slug the next person foolish enough to cross his path in a balaclava.

These are the men who took on StrexCorp to rescue him. These are the men who were thrown from reality and still came back to him. And tonight he has them at his sides, their bodies soft and warm against his, their limbs wrapped around him like ribs around a heart.

Whatever happens in the morning, tonight he has them, and he is safe. Tonight, all is well.


	9. Trust and rope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one of your boyfriends is a master of knot-tying, it's only a matter of time before you bring rope to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dangersocks for the beta on this chapter~

Call it a contradiction, but it takes some effort for Carlos to relax. Usually he’s the one who takes charge-- but then, that’s what makes this fun, isn’t it? The inversion of the norm?

Or something like that. To be honest, the social sciences never were his strong suit, but he knows enough to recognize the nervous tension that leaves him rambling internally.

It isn’t that he distrusts Cecil and Earl-- he trusts them both with his life, and more-- but he’s never actually _done_ this sort of thing before. The closest he’s ever come has involved a pair of fuzzy handcuffs that fell apart halfway to the orgasm, and that’s a long way from real rope expertly tied by a Scoutmaster.

The thought sends a shiver up his spine that’s equal parts anxiety and arousal.

Earl’s large, callused hands hesitate against the small of his back. “Are you all right, Carlos?”

Cecil’s hand-- the one that isn’t currently keeping a knot from coming untied against his thigh-- grips his shoulder, and he pauses the string of praises that had been falling from his lips.

This is why he trusts these two with this: neither of them are going to let anything happen to him. They’ve talked this through, established safewords and precautions. Every contingency has been prepared for, and they’re ready to stop if things deviate even slightly from the plan.

“I’m fine. Keep going.”

They do, but slower this time, with more reassuring touches sweeping across his bare skin, reminding him that he’s safe and loved.

“Look at you, Carlos,” Cecil murmurs with a voice like warm honey, and it takes some of the edge off, soothes some of the anxiety of being naked and immobile while the other two are still free and fully dressed. “You’re so damn hot. Absolutely perfect. Carlos, you’re gorgeous…”

It’s all right. Everything’s all right.

He doesn’t resist as they ease him back against the headboard, his arms tied to the bed posts, his legs splayed wide, his whole body bound by an elaborate rope harness. His limbs are just loose enough to let him shift to get more comfortable, but no more. While Earl finishes securing the last of the ties, Cecil leans over him, kissing him chastely on the corner of the mouth.

“My dear Carlos,” he whispers, his voice low and enticing. “Are you ready for the show?”

The “Yes” comes out a rasp. Because even if the thought makes him nervous, he wouldn’t have agreed to this if he didn’t want it. Badly. His dick twitches in confirmation, unhidden by the ropes.

Let the games begin.

Earl finishes tying the bonds and steps past the foot of the bed, well past Carlos’ reach. Cecil flashes him a devilish grin and then slips away to join him. There’s no preamble-- tying up their partner was more than enough foreplay, apparently-- before Cecil grabs Earl by the collar and pulls him into a fierce, passionate kiss. Even if Earl was expecting the onslaught, he makes a sound of surprise deep in his throat that goes straight to Carlos’ groin. Earl’s hands slide to Cecil’s hips, glide up his sides while Cecil wraps his arms around him and presses closer against him. They're absolutely flush, so close Carlos can hear the friction of their clothes rubbing together.

Earl slides his leg up Cecil's thigh to hitch it around his waist. It draws a small sound from Carlos throat.  He can practically feel that same sweet pressure on his hip. Cecil slides a hand down to cup that lovely ass, and Earl presses even closer, tracing a line of kisses down his neck.

Carlos wants to be with them,  wants to be pressed between them until he can barely breathe for the pressure,  wants to feel their limbs wrapped around his and their lips on him.

In a single graceful motion,  Cecil swings Earl down,  his back against the bed, one leg still wrapped lovingly around Cecil's waist. It's a show of power Carlos doesn't often get to see from the other man, and it sends a pulse of heat straight through him.

Earl curls his shoulders off the bed so he can pull off his shirt,  and Cecil kisses the rippling muscle of his suddenly naked chest.

Sweet speciation, they aren't even fully undressed yet  and Carlos is already painfully hard.  He wants to touch himself,  to get some relief,  but he's bound too tight. His hands clench and unclench compulsively at his sides, empty and unsatisfied.

The movement attracts attention-- Earl’s eyes flit to him for a barely a micron, and his smile turns wicked. With a single fluid motion he bucks his hips, pitching Cecil forward into his waiting arms and greeting him with a ravenous kiss. The second Cecil shifts to support himself, Earl’s hands slide down his front, unhooking buttons and opening his shirt with record speed. He’s moving so fast that Carlos doesn’t register him moving on to the pants until Cecil’s cock is free, bouncing eagerly against Earl’s shorts.

A needy moan scrapes from Carlos’ throat. He wants to be there-- to feel Earl’s hand pumping at his length like that, to have his own hand around Cecil. They’re barely inches from his curling toes, but they might as well be miles away for all he can do about it.

Another quick kiss-- a promise-- and Earl pulls his hands away, arching his back until his hips leave the bed. Cecil ruts at Earl’s thigh while he fumbles with his belt, and Carlos can practically feel the sweet friction of course fabric against his own cock.

“You guys-- you’re killing me--” He’s panting. His face is hot, his skin feels like it’s crawling with need, his muscles are starting to burn from straining against the rope.

A brief shift in position as shorts and boxers alike are pulled off and tossed aside. Cecil throws one leg over his shoulder and kisses the inside of his knee, sliding his hand up Earl’s thigh.

“C’mon, Earl,” Cecil whispers, punctuated with the click of an opening cap. “Open up for me.” Before him, Earl’s back arches off the mattress again, his eyes squeezed shut, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. Carlos can’t see what’s going on, but it’s written all over Earl’s face, in his hungry groans, in the shake of the mattress as he writhes.

Carlos thought he was painfully hard before-- he was wrong. His pulse is drumming wildly in his ears, his cock feels ready to explode. He’s burning alive.

“Please,” he chokes. “Fuck-- please--” Either these damned ropes are going to come off or his arms are. “I need-- fuck--”

Cecil pulls his hands back, one slick and shining with lube. Earl whines in response, and Carlos echoes it with a wordless cry. He can’t stand it-- he’s losing his mind.

Earl rolls over, his hair brushing over Carlos’ bound leg as he repositions himself. It’s just his calf, but he’s so sensitized that even the faint touch sends a pulse of pleasure shooting through him like heroin. But instead of offering relief, it only stokes the fire.

Earl’s on his hands and knees between Carlos’ spread legs and still agonizingly far away. Cecil’s positioning himself behind him, his member just barely hidden behind the pale expanse of Earl’s back as he slicks himself up.

“Closer,” Carlos begs. “Just a little bit closer-- want to feel you-- please, I need you--” His words collapse into a guttural growl as he watches Cecil slide into Earl, his attention divided between two expressions of ecstasy.

His mouth is still moving as Cecil begins to thrust, but he’s lost track of the pleading and profanities falling from his lips. Every snap of Cecil’s hips brings Earl closer, just a few millimeters at a time--

An arc of pleasure shoots through him, so intense it rips a scream from his throat.

That’s Earl, he realizes somewhere in the heights of his euphoria. Those are Earl’s lips against his cock-- Earl’s soft palate pushing against his head in time with Cecil’s thrusts-- Earl’s moans buzzing through him.

What little part of Carlos remains lucid tries to say something, to warn him, but he’s beyond words. He’s powerless to do anything but howl as his release comes crashing down Earl’s throat.

Waves of pleasure wash over him, drowning him, covering the world in a white haze. He’s only distantly aware of a sharp stuttering in the mattress underneath him, a choking gasp of orgasm, a weight falling into his lap. His buzz only starts to clear when a cool glass is pressed to his lips, inviting him to drink. Deft hands work through the knots on his skin-- the relief after that inhuman pressure is its own brand of sweetness, and he moans at the sensation.

“Are you all right, my Carlos?” The soft tones of Cecil’s voice are coming from somewhere to his left.

Carlos opens his mouth and leaves it hanging that way. “All right” doesn’t even begin to cover it. There are probably words somewhere, in some language, but his blissed-out mind can’t puzzle them out.

He settles for a nod.

Apparently satisfied, Cecil kisses his forehead. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

This time the nod carries with it a wide, languid smile.

Earl is gently massaging him, soothing away the imprints left by the rope, and Carlos melts into the touch. He could drift off like this, lulled into perfect peace by Cecil’s voice and Earl’s touch.

And so he does.


	10. A matter of motivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To put it bluntly, it's a bribe: the best way of making sure Earl comes back in one piece is to remind him of what he's missing out on.

Earl’s leaving again.

Not forever-- he says he’ll be back from the camping trip before the end of the month, and Cecil trusts him to do everything in his power to do so. But that doesn’t dampen the ache of worry curling in his chest, gathering dark possibilities and growing ever wider until it’s it’s crushing his internal organs against his bones.

It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the possibility of disaster. Between Street Cleaners and Librarians and Valentine’s Day and the standard political process and a hundred thousand other catastrophes that strike Night Vale on a daily basis, nobody puts much stake in a long life, and Cecil has long since accepted that. He can only faintly remember having a family, and it wasn’t too long ago that he’d routinely doubt whether he was quite literally alone in the universe. Back then, death and loneliness were just two additional facets of life, and neither of them bothered him all that much.

But things have changed since then. Now he has Earl and Carlos, and for the first time he remembers exactly what it means to lose someone you love.

He can’t go through that again.

He can’t.

He just can’t.

A small, cruel part of him wants to barricade the doors and lock them in the house-- and even if some unspeakable horror does come after them, the three of them can at least face it together-- but the rest of him knows better. Caging someone you love is the fastest way to drive them away from you. And besides, he’s pretty sure there’s not a trap in the world that Earl couldn’t find a way out of. He’s clever that way. That’s what Cecil’s counting on, after all: that no matter what happens, Earl will figure out a way back to them.

All Cecil can do at this point is make sure he’s properly motivated.

* * *

 

There’s no knot that can hold the Scoutmaster, not without hurting him, but Cecil doesn’t need rope. Not when he’s got Earl’s impeccable discipline.

“Now. Earl.” He purrs out the name, reveling in the way it draws a shiver down every inch of Earl’s naked body. “Tonight is about you. We’re going to take good, good care of you, all right?”

Earl makes a vague, raspy noise in the affirmative. On Earl’s other side, Carlos’ eyes are dark and hungry. The night’s foreplay was long and full of promise; it’s about time they reap the rewards.

“We have some plans for you, my dear Earl, but you’ll need to cooperate. You’ll need to lay back and stay very still. Can you do that for us?” His lips brush Earl’s ear, and another shiver washes across the other man.

“How still?”

“Nothing too restricting,” Carlos joins in-- details have always been his strong suit. “Keep your hands at your sides and your feet apart. If we need them to move, we’ll move them. There will be six points at which you are to remain in contact with the mattress at all times. Your heels…” He wraps his large hands around Earl’s ankle and pulls it to the corner of the bed with an affectionate squeeze. “Your hands…” He takes Earl’s wrist and tugs it to the opposite end of the bed, stretching him out across the mattress. Earl lets himself be repositioned without resistance. “And your shoulders.” He presses down gently at either shoulder, reinforcing the contact between bare skin and cotton sheets. “You’re free to react, free to get more comfortable, free to get up if you want to stop--”

“Not a chance,” Earl breathes.

“But if you do, you can.” Carlos lowers himself over Earl, his breath ghosting across the Scoutmaster’s throat. “Unless you want to stop, though, you’re going to keep your hands and feet right where they are. No touching.” He scrapes his perfectly straight teeth across the side of Earl’s neck, soothing the contact with his lips an instant later. “Do you understand?”

Earl’s reply is somewhere between a grunt in the affirmative and a moan of pleasure.

Carlos nips at his neck again, harder this time. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes!” Earl gasps. “Yes, I understand. I won’t move.”

Carlos pulls a stretch of delicate skin between his teeth, just gently enough that it won’t leave a mark. “Very good.”

Dear Masters, it’s too much. Earl may have self-control, but Cecil doesn’t. He descends on his boyfriend, crushing Earl’s lips with a kiss while Carlos continues on his bared throat. Earl doesn’t kiss back as eagerly as usual, and for a moment Cecil hesitates, trying to gauge the other man’s comfort.

Earl’s lips part in a gasp of pleasure as Carlos moves down to nip at his collarbone. His lips remain parted-- an invitation. He’s still acclimating himself to the rules of this game, and Cecil is more than happy to teach him. He draws Earl’s lower lip between his teeth and sucks, gently scraping the delicate flesh with his teeth.

“Oh Earl,” he whispers, sitting up to run his hands through Earl’s hair. “You’re doing so well-- you haven’t moved an inch, have you? Tell me, Earl, are you enjoying yourself?”

“ _Ohhh_ yes.” The first word comes out high-pitched and shaky-- probably because of the way carlos is dragging his tongue across Earl’s hipbone. The sound ignites a flare at the base of Cecil’s spine, and he descends again, this time wrapping his lips around Earl’s nipple. It hardens under his tongue, the darker skin crinkling sweetly under each stroke, while he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger.

Carlos, not to be outdone, has moved lower, suckling and biting at the delicate skin on Earl’s thighs. The Scoutmaster is shaking now, his head thrown back against the pillow, his hands curled into fists, his back arched to get closer to those wicked mouths and their _teasing_.

Carlos is getting rougher, unrestrained now that he’s reached an area the young Scouts won’t have a chance to see. He’s sucking and biting, leaving a pattern of hickies across Earl’s thighs, and every red mark opens a new vein of lust. He’s straddling one of Earl’s legs, grinding into his shin while he sucks bruises into his thigh, almost animal in his need. Underneath them, Earl opens his legs wider with a pleading whimper, begging for more.

Hell if Cecil won’t give it to him.

He scrambles down, grabs Earl by his hips and wraps his mouth around that glorious erection.

“Sweet Masters,” Earl hisses, bucking into Cecil’s mouth, and the radio host swallows him down in retaliation. He could finish Earl off like this, take him whole and swallow around him until he comes-- but no.

They have a plan, and he won’t spoil it by being greedy.

He slides back off him with an obscene pop that warrants a sharp cry of “C-Cecil!” from Earl, and Cecil would be a horrible liar if he pretended not to derive a dark satisfaction from how desperate he sounds.

He reaches into the spit-slick space between Earl’s legs, buries his hand in Carlos’ hair, and _pulls_ , bringing the scientist away from the hickey-bruised skin there and up to Earl’s cock. He looks absolutely feral, his pupils blown wide, his face flushed dark, his breath coming in hungry, predatory gasps.

It would have sent Cecil over the edge of madness even if he wasn’t almost there already. They collide into one another, kissing with an unknown ferocity, tongues dragging against the swollen dick between them, chasing each other up and down its length.

Earl isn’t just crying out anymore, he’s _howling_. His hands are buried in the sheets and his hips buck wildly between the two of them. They rearrange again-- Cecil wraps his mouth around the thrashing head of Earl’s penis while Carlos descends to suck on his balls. Every change in pressure wrenches another cry from Earl-- “Oh-- gods-- yes-- please--” And then a yowl: “Cecil! Carlos! I--”

Cecil pulls off just in time to catch Earl’s release on his face.

For a long moment they’re frozen like that, all three gasping for breath, the come cooling on Cecil’s skin.

“That--” Earl groans, starting to sit up. “That was amazing--” But Carlos rises first and presses Earl back into the mattress.

“‘m not done yet,” he growls-- _growls_ \-- and cups Cecil’s face in his hand. His tongue flicks out, at once gentle and claiming, and he laps up the semen from Cecil’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin.

“Holy fuck.”

Cecil turns his head just slightly, giving Carlos a better angle at his cheekbone while he sneaks a glance at Earl. He’s still pressed against the bed, curled forward as much as he can get without letting his shoulders leave the mattress. His eyes are wide, his face so red his freckles are barely visible against the blush, his mouth hanging open, his dick twitching in a valiant attempt to regroup.  Cecil doesn’t get to take in the rest of the view before Carlos pulls him in for a kiss-- and dear Masters, he can taste Earl on his tongue.

He’s not entirely sure if that whimper came from his mouth or Earl’s.

Just as quickly as Carlos grabs him close, he’s gone again. It takes Cecil a moment to collect himself in the aftermath, but they’re not done yet.  

He lowers himself to rest beside Earl, his head still level with Earl’s hips, his feet swinging in the air by his shoulders. It would only take a little maneuvering to go from here to a full-on 69-- a lovely, lovely thought, but it it’s not in tonight’s program.

Instead he nuzzles the patchwork of hickies on Earl’s thighs. “Just look at you,” he breathes. “So lovely, my brave, beautiful Earl.” He traces his lips over the tender crease where his legs meet his groin. “Carlos marked you up so nicely. And you’re going to think about tonight every time you see these, aren’t you?” He sucks another bruise into the blank canvas of his hip, and gets a perfect view of Earl’s cock straining toward another erection.

“Gods-- Cecil, I can’t--”

“Does that mean you want to stop?” Cecil murmurs, and Earl shakes his head in a vehement no. “Or do you want us to get inside you?” He slides one hand between Earl’s legs and traces languid circles around his hole. “I want you to remember tonight. I want you to remember what you have waiting for you at home. And as soon as your campout is finished, I want you to hurry back, so we can show you how much we missed you. So we can welcome you home _properly_.”

Footsteps announce Carlos’ return, followed by the click of a cap. Freshly warmed lube drizzles down Cecil’s wrist and pools in his palm, dripping into the space between Earl’s legs. The Scoutmaster groans and rolls his hips into the sensation.

“What else have you two got planned for me?” he whispers, raspy and dry.

“First,” Carlos says, scooping Earl’s head into his arms. “You’re going to drink up.” He tips a glass of water to Earl’s lips, tilting it back as the Scoutmaster drinks it down. Cecil watches them carefully, making sure not to startle Earl while he’s drinking. As soon as he’s finished, Cecil slides a slick finger into his hole.

“Then you’re going to relax for us,” he purrs, easing him open slowly. While Cecil works, Carlos is busy with a washcloth, patting the sweat from Earl’s face and neck. “We did say we were going to take care of you, didn’t we?”

“Mm-hm…”

“And then you’re going to open wide…” He adds a second finger, and Earl immediately tenses at the touch-- not like he’s bracing against intrusion, but like he’s trying to pull the fingers deeper inside. “You’re doing so well for me, Earl. Carlos, come and see how good he is.”

“Oh gods,” Earl gasps as one of Carlos’ fingers join Cecil’s.

“You’re right, Cecil,” Carlos hums. “You’re so loose for us, Earl. What do you think-- can you take another?”

“P-please.” Earl’s arms twitch, straining as if against invisible shackles, and Carlos moves up to kiss him.

“Well. Because you asked so nicely.” A fourth finger slides into Earl, and for a moment they’re pushing and pulling and tangling against one another while Earl writhes beneath them. Cecil gives Carlos’ arm a squeeze, their prearranged signal. Both of them withdraw their hands at once, and Cecil rolls off the bed.

“Wait--” Earl’s hips buck, his ass cheeks clenching at the sudden loss. “No-- please-- I need--”

“Use your words,” Carlos murmurs into his ear.

“Fuck me. Please-- please fuck me. I need you-- I need you both so badly-- I--”

That’s all Cecil needs to hear. He crawls into the space between Earl’s legs, pushing his thighs apart to give himself more room. The sudden stretch pulls a whimper from Earl’s lips, but it’s muffled by another kiss from Carlos. Cecil grabs Earl’s hips and lifts them off the mattress until they’re level with his own. He’s wide open and so eager and so inviting, and Cecil’s been painfully hard for entirely too long.

“You ready, Earl?” he asks, lubing himself up. The second he hears that whimper of affirmation, he slides in up to the root. A litany of swears dances at the edge of hearing, but Carlos swallows each one before they can escape.

“I love you like this,” he whispers into Earl’s ear while Cecil waits for him to adjust. “Do you have any idea how hot you are? You drive me absolutely crazy.”

Cecil can feel him relaxing, bit by bit.

“But you know what else I love?” Oh masters, Carlos is nibbling on Earl’s earlobe. When he speaks again, he’s almost inaudible: “Watching him fuck you.”

Cecil can’t contain himself any longer. He starts thrusting into Earl-- smooth and easy at first, but growing harder and sharper as he watches his boyfriends making out beneath him. Carlos pulls away to watch Cecil sliding in and out between those lovely thighs before he descends on Earl again, his kisses ravenous. It’s too much-- too much-- they’re too beautiful, too sweet, too perfect, too-- and that’s all he can think before he comes hard, pouring himself into Earl.

He can feel his release hot and moist inside Earl-- but his boyfriend isn’t full. Not yet.

Carlos gives Earl’s lip a last nip as he climbs off the bed. He and Cecil trade a scorching kiss before Cecil cedes that sweet spot between Earl's thighs to Carlos. He sneaks a gulp of water as Carlos moves into position, lines himself up, drives himself deep.

That orgasm hit Cecil hard. Exhaustion is dragging at his consciousness, but he’s not finished yet. He has one thing left to do before he can slip away entirely.

“Oh, my sweet, succulent Earl.” Cecil nuzzles into Earl's stomach. “Are you enjoying yourself? Are you hard for me?” Earl's eyes are rolled back in his head-- Cecil would assume him possessed if he didn't know better. “Are you ready to come again?”

“Yes, yes, please gods yes!”

Cecil has no energy to spare for licking and teasing anymore-- he takes Earl whole, wrapping his lips around his teeth to protect that lovely cock from an accidental bite. Earl's bucking into him, his movements erratic, torn between thrusting into Cecil's mouth and impaling himself on Carlos, and it takes all Cecil's concentration to keep up. His nose is full of thick hair, both luscious red and smoky black, and he's drowning in the scent of sweat and come and pheromones.

His mouth is too full to speak, so he imbues intent into every drag of tongue, every hummed note, every bit of suction: _You’re ours, Earl. You’re ours. Nothing can take you away from us.  Nobody else can have you. You. Are. Ours._

Carlos’ mad thrusts stutter and then go still, and Cecil takes the opportunity to plunge down as deep as he can and swallow around Earl. It’s the last bit of coaxing Earl needs before he’s coming too, hot and hard down Cecil’s throat, filling him up just as Carlos is filling him, and Cecil milks him of every drop.

At the edge of his awareness, he knows the alarm on the nightstand has already been set. Earl’s going to leave for the camping trip early tomorrow morning, and then he’ll be gone. Three long weeks of sleeping alone on cold sand under an unforgiving void, far away from the men who love him.

But that’s a good ten hours away.

Until then, they’re going to be together, and they’re going to have the damn best sleep of their lives.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving credit where credit is due:
> 
> Earl staying still by sheer willpower is entirely Dangersocks' idea, not mine.  
> What has been lovingly dubbed the 'penis kiss thing' was inspired by this image (warning: gunplay if you're sensitive to that sort of thing): http://meveret.tumblr.com/post/67707227137/this-is-a-thanks-for-all-the-lovely-porn-you-have


	11. A welcome home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dangersocks for the wonderful beta edit~

The Scouts break camp a little after dawn and hike the last few miles to the road. A caravan of parents and guardians is already parked along the stretch of pavement-- along with one scientist, who fiddles distractedly with a GPS that seems to have started spewing glitter.

Carlos looks up as the Scouts arrive, but he keeps his distance while Earl finishes the final tasks of the campout.

In a lot of ways, this is the most exhausting part of the trip: Earl can handle wilderness and hiking and catching meals for a town’s worth of excitable boys, but parents are something else entirely. Some are anxious, some excited, some irate, some too groggy from what they think is an early morning to bother with basic civility. Earl sees each one of the boys into their appropriate cars, vans, motorcycles, and in one case, tractor, and then leans wearily against the purring Coupe.

“Hey,” Carlos says softly, settling beside him. “How was the campout?”

“Good,” Earl replies. He’s done entirely too much talking for one morning. “Long.”

Carlos hums in agreement. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Earl offers him a weary smile, but Carlos doesn’t have time to notice it before he’s pressing Earl into the side of the Coupe and kissing him thoroughly. It’s been too long since Earl’s been touched this way-- been kissed this way-- and he melts shamelessly into him.

There was a time when he could have spent ages in isolation, stripped of company and human contact, without much more than a passing thought. That time is long gone. Cecil and Carlos have spoiled him. For the past three weeks he craved their presence like he craved water. He treasured each of the marks they’d left on his skin, wistfully tracing over the memory of light bruises long after they’d faded. Now he’s itching to touch, to taste, to be held and to hold, to bathe himself in all the familiar sights and sounds and smells that have come to mean _family_ and _love_ and _home_.

“I missed you,” Earl groans as Carlos eases him into the passenger seat. “Gods, how I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He expects Carlos to move around to the other side, to buckle up and start driving. Instead, the scientist slides in on top of Earl’s lap, nipping at his neck while he fumbles with the fly on the Scoutmaster’s shorts. Earl takes in his surroundings with perhaps less than the appropriate level of vigilance: they’re miles into the Sand Wastes, the boys and their parents are long gone, Carlos has them both covered with the clean white expanse of his lab coat, and the only other people for miles around are the tiny black specks of passing helicopters.

“I worried about you,” Carlos whispers, pulling back from suckling a fresh mark into Earl’s collarbone. “We both did.” One hand slips under Earl’s briefs and draws his cock out from its tent. His hands are warm and soft and so very _right_ that Earl can’t hold in a whimper.

“You good, Earl?” Carlos whispers, pulling back so only the tips of his fingers ghost over that delicate, needy skin.

Earl grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him hard, whispering a “yeah,” into his mouth. Carlos’ fist closes around Earl’s dick, pumping and squeezing and twisting so perfectly that it leaves Earl gasping for breath, his head thrown back against the headrest.

With one arm, Carlos braces himself against the seatback, his lips dark and swollen, his hair wild, and he looks so damn _hungry_ \--

“That’s right,” he growls, pumping faster. “That’s right, Earl. I want you to feel good. I want you ecstatic. I want you to come for me.”

And Earl wants to-- so bad-- he’s right at the edge, and he can feel it approaching like a sunrise, but he just needs--

Carlos dives down on him again, sinks his teeth into Earl’s shoulder and bites hard. The flash of pain blooms into raw pleasure, huge and brilliant and all-encompassing, and Earl comes with a gasp into Carlos’ hand.

The word seems to fade into fog while Earl floats in the afterglow, and he doesn’t hurry himself back to reality. Carlos has him. Carlos will take care of everything.

He returns to himself in time to see Carlos cleaning them both up with fast-food napkins and wet-naps.

“Welcome home,” he murmurs, carefully righting Earl’s shorts and straightening his collar.

Carlos drives one-handed on the way back, his other hand intertwined with Earl’s for the rest of the trip. The Coupe makes up for his slight lack of control, sharpening turns and flicking signals as it takes the familiar route home. The car is so excited to have Earl back that it blasts him with cold air for the entire trip, and Earl doesn’t have the heart to tell it that the cold air makes him feel a bit ill after spending so much time in the desert.

“Where’s Cecil?” Earl asks when they finally pull into the garage.

“In bed, I think,” Carlos says. “He wanted to come, but he was sleeping so peacefully I didn’t have the heart to wake him up. Besides.” His grin turns dark and mischievous, and he traces a finger over the fresh bruise hidden under Earl’s shirt. “I wanted you to myself for a bit.”

* * *

 

Earl lingers in the shower longer than is strictly necessary, scrubbing himself over and over and over again until three weeks’ worth of dust and sand stop accumulating in the bottom of the tub. His favorite green apple shampoo is waiting for him at the edge of the tub, along with a fluffy fresh towel and a bottle of some sweet-smelling stuff that might either be lotion or salve, but the card attached to its neck says “Earl” in fancy letters and it feels heavenly when he rubs it into his weathered skin.

He fully intends to get dressed and have a productive day-- it’s barely eleven-- but then he sees Cecil.

Carlos was right.

Cecil’s curled on his side, a fringe of hair hanging over his eyes, his expression caught in a tiny, sleepy smile that makes Earl’s heart melt in his chest. Cecil’s shoulders are bare. The rest of him might be, too, but Earl can’t bring himself to wake the other man to find out. Instead he draws back the covers and crawls into bed beside him, curling into the soft warmth of his boyfriend.

* * *

 

The sun is high overhead by the time Earl drifts back into consciousness, his eyes slowly focusing on Cecil and his hopeless bedhead. The radio host reaches out a hand and runs it through Earl’s hair with a sleepy smile.

“Are you really here?” Cecil hums. “Did I dream you back?”

Earl nuzzles into his hand. “No. I’m here for real.”

“Good. I missed you.” Cecil pulls forward and buries his face in Earl’s chest, and Earl sneaks a chance to inhale the scent of him-- ozone and petrichor. _Home_.

“Missed you, too,” Earl murmured. “So did anything interesting happen while I was away?”

“We burnt down the Library again,” Cecil said. “It grew back. And some jerk from California tried to start a reality TV show in Night Vale. That didn’t end well. And a group of teenagers tried to spend the weekend in that one cabin that spontaneously appeared in the middle of the Whispering Forest. That was a few days after you left, actually. We don’t expect to find their remains.” He snuggles in closer against Earl. “You?”

“The usual,” Earl said. “Hiking, sunburns, the standard emergencies.” Funny. He’d never really had anyone to talk to about these sorts of trips, aside from the people who went on them. “Archery, invisibility and explosives are more popular this year than they were before. The story about what happened at Strex keeps getting exaggerated.”

“Well, it was pretty impressive.” Cecil kneads Earl’s biceps, and Earl can’t keep back a pleased groan. Cecil grins. “Feel good?”

“I forgot how sore I get,” Earl admits, and Cecil rolls on top of him. Suddenly long, slender fingers are kneading circles into his chest, his arms, and his thighs, unknotting muscles Earl didn’t even register as being tense.

“Roll over,” Cecil murmurs, and Earl is quick to obey. Cecil starts the process over again: this time on Earl’s feet, his calves, his hamstrings. He straddles Earl’s hips as he moves on to work the kinks out of his back, and he’s aroused. Earl can feel that welcome hardness pressing against his backside every time Cecil shifts his weight-- which is often, thanks to the enthusiasm Cecil is putting into this massage.

It doesn’t take much-- just an arch of his back, a few warm groans-- and Cecil’s hands are wandering to cup Earl’s ass.

“Maybe I should welcome you home properly,” Cecil purrs, giving an affectionate squeeze. “Make up for missing your arrival. Would you like that, Earl?”

“Yes, please.” Earl rubs himself harder against Cecil’s groin. Could he make Cecil come just from this? Or would Earl come first? It seems like the sort of experiment Carlos would love to oversee. Speaking of which... “Carlos gave me a welcome of his own.”

Cecil chuckles. “I can see that.” He grazes a finger over the bruise on Earl’s shoulder. With the other hand he reaches for the night stand, and a moment later Earl hears a familiar click. A moment later a slick digit traces a circle around Earl’s entrance. “And now it’s my turn.”

The finger slides in, gentle and probing. Earl is too relaxed to tense at the stretch.

“Mmm, so tight for me.”

“There wasn’t exactly a lot of privacy out there,” Earl mumbles into his pillow.

“No,” Cecil agrees. “And you are an excellent Scoutmaster. But now the Scouts are gone, and I have you all to myself.” He adds another finger, but his motions remain smooth and sweet. It takes longer than usual to prepare Earl, but that’s its own brand of perfect. There’s no urgency between them, no desperation. They have all the time in the world.

Even when Cecil enters into him, their motions are languid, every inch bringing with it a slow, sweet burn despite the added lube. Cecil’s hands roam across Earl’s back as he slides in and out, and every point of contact adds its own delicious sensation. Earl can feel the orgasm building at the base of his spine, like pinpoints of light gathering into constellations, growing brighter with every press of their hips. Cecil folds tight against Earl’s back, and one hand drifts down, down, down. His fingertips alight on Earl’s cock, light as butterflies but not nearly as carnivorous, exploring the shape, the texture, every curve and angle.

“Cecil, please…”

The radio host presses a kiss to Earl’s shoulder blade. “Anything for you, Earl.” His hand forms a fist-- still loose, still teasing, for one moment more-- and then he tightens his grip.

“You’re so good,” Cecil murmurs-- and oh, he’s been holding back. Earl can feel the undertones of raw lust rumbling in his boyfriend’s chest. “So sweet. So tight. So wonderful.” His thrusts get a bit faster, a bit less controlled, and his hand loses its steadiness. “Dear Masters, I love being inside you.”

“That’s right, Cecil.” Earl adjusts slightly, changing his angle just so, and the next thrust strikes his prostate. Pleasure flushes through him like heat lightning, and he gasps. “Just like that. Just like--” Another bloom of pleasure rushes through him, another. Cecil’s rutting hard against him. His fingertips are digging into Earl’s thigh, and his other hand is pumping harder, harder, harder-- until Earl spills himself all over Cecil’s hands. He’s still blissfully sensitive when Cecil’s hips stutter and his arms squeeze tight around Earl’s chest.

They linger there, nestled together, while Cecil softens within him.

“I’ll need another shower after this,” Earl muses after a long, comfortable silence.

“Probably,” Cecil says. “Mind if I join you?”

“And the pampering continues.” Earl turns to kiss Cecil’s forehead over his shoulder. “If you and Carlos keep this up, you’re going to spoil me rotten.”

“I know,” Cecil hums. “That’s the plan.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to add that this story isn't dead-- but my update schedule will be more contingent on when I get an idea I really like than any kind of set schedule.
> 
> All of Waltz is supposed to be essentially their "Happily Ever After", and the thing about happily ever after is that it goes on effectively forever, rather than having a set end point. There will always be something new for these three to discover about each other. 
> 
> If you're craving more, I definitely suggest looking at one of Dangersocks' several lovely fics that were inspired by this.


	12. Tiramisu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tiramisu is a popular dessert at many restaurants – especially at Tourniquet – but few people make it at home. Once they hear how easy it is, and how delicious Chef Mason’s recipe is, they’ll want to make it all the time. They’ll want to never stop making tiramisu."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually written a long while back, as part of a series of chats with [Dangersocks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks). I've been meaning to put it together into a cohesive whole for a long time now, but life got in the way.
> 
> On that note:
> 
> Life has been kind of weird for me lately. For the last year, I've been busy with my book series, and consequently I've wound up changing URLs several times and being generally impossible to find. Now the series is done, I'm waiting on my cover artist and all the associated technical details to fall into place, and the impetus of my deadlines is no longer hanging over my head.
> 
> In short, I actually have time to write again. And thanks to several people reaching out to me, I'm going back to WTNV. I love writing for this fandom, and I'll try to keep writing for it as long as I have readers. 
> 
> If you have any requests, let me know in the comments, or drop me a line on [tumblr](http://judiops.tumblr.com).

* * *

It comes out of nowhere. No matter how thoroughly Carlos dissects the days before the event, he can’t find anything to forewarn it. Everything was normal, for the given value of normal accepted within the borders of their home. Earl gave no sign or discomfort. Cecil didn’t seem to notice anything, either.

Not until the text, and even that seems benign. Just a quick note from Earl, while the other two stop at the Ralph’s to restock the fridge.

His additions to the shopping list are innocent: heavy cream, sugar, coffee, rum, and a few other odds and ends. Carlos hasn’t actually heard of mascarpone before, but it doesn’t seem too scientifically significant, and this is Night Vale, after all.

Cecil is busy disentangling their shopping cart from an irate tumbleweed that snuck into the frozen food aisle, but he glances up. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Carlos shows him the text. “Earl just wanted us to pick him up a few things. Do you have any idea what aisle we’d find mascarpone in?”

The word triggers a reaction from Cecil. Not a narrowing of the eyes, but a sudden, careful blankness. He reads over the altered shopping list more carefully. His expression is unreadable, but the tumbleweed cracks in his suddenly too-tight grip. Carefully he releases the poor thing, and it skitters off to hide under a bag of Brussels sprouts.

“Cecil?” Carlos edges closer, immediately on the alert. He studies at the list again. It isn’t any of the codes he recognizes, but Cecil and Earl have a shared history in the Scouts. No doubt they have plenty of secret signs between them. “ _Is_ everything alright?”

Cecil glances aside, his eyes skirting the hooded figures that pretend to count frozen peas at the end of the aisle. “It’s not life-threatening,” he hedges. “But we-- we should head home. Quickly.”

* * *

By the time they reach the car, they’re pushing two carts across the parking lot, each one overloaded with Earl’s requested ingredients. The mascarpone is still wriggling in its paper wrappers; Cecil was in too much of a rush to wait for the genderless being behind the seafood counter to slaughter them.

“Besides,” he said cryptically, “it’ll give him something to do.”

Carlos doesn’t understand what that meant, but he understands the urgency on Cecil’s face. Together they haphazardly throw the groceries into the trunk of the little Hybrid Coupe, foregoing their usual careful game of Tetris in the name of speed. The Coupe notices, and its windshield wipers twitch in second-hand anxiety. While Carlos pushes the cart into the nearest corral, Cecil strokes the dashboard . Carlos returns in time to hear the tail end of his soothing whispers.

“No, he’ll be fine. Not too far over the speed limit. But a little bit over won’t hurt.” He cringed. “And, um, don’t forget to stop at the signs. We don’t have immunity anymore.” He gives Carlos a glance of silent explanation: the last thing they need is to get pulled over for speeding.

Tension is rising in the air, and it’s making Carlos’s skin crawl. Carlos is barely in his seat when the car door slams shut and the car zips out of the parking lot. He’s grateful for the speed, but his fingers itch for the steering wheel. He wants to be in control. He wants to fix things for his boyfriends. But he can’t do that until he has the necessary data.

“Cecil, please.” He carefully positions himself to muffle the SSP microphone by his headrest. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Carlos.” Cecil flashes a wan smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“But you’re worried.”

“It really isn’t life-threatening.”

 _Neither are oranges_ , Carlos does not say. Cecil is anxious enough; he doesn’t need to be reminded of old nightmares.

“That excludes a very large range of human experiences,” he says instead.

Cecil fidgets in silence while the road vanishes beneath them. “The important thing is not to get upset.”

“Of course.” And Carlos’ blood pressure keeps climbing. “See? I’m perfectly calm. What are we not getting upset about?”

“Earl has…” Cecil’s hands open and close in a gesture of awkward, useless flapping. It does nothing to speed their drive. “It’s a condition? I know that’s not very scientific, but I don’t know the proper scientific words for this kind of thing. He’s had it since we were kids. Most of the time it’s latent, sleeping just under the surface, as harmless and forgotten as recollections of a terrible mistake, like poisonous sediment at the bottom of a still pool. And yet sometimes, for no reason, the water is disturbed, and the sediment rises to cloud the surface…”

He pauses for effect, and Carlos interrupts him before he can wax any more poetic. “Cecil, please. In the most concise phrasing possible. What’s wrong with Earl?”

When Cecil cuts to the chase, the wound is jagged and clumsy and entirely unhelpful: “He’s baking.”

* * *

 

When they arrive home, Earl is alive and whole, scrubbing mixing bowls in a kitchen that wasn’t nearly so clean this morning. Every surface is sparkling, every utensil gleams with a new polish. Heat rolls from an oven that seems like it’s been preheating for hours, judging by the sweat gathering on Earl’s forehead. He greets them at the kitchen’s edge, his hands still twitching slightly as he accepts the first bag of groceries from Cecil and Carlos. His expression is guarded and tense, grateful and resigned. There’s something ritualistic to all of this, which Carlos might find fascinating if he was an anthropologist. But he’s not that kind of scientist, and so he can only observe and assist as metaphorical mountains of groceries pile onto the counters and slowly vanish into the refrigerator.

Cecil wasn’t wrong. Earl is, in fact, baking. He beats heavy cream into a thick fluff. He layers thin cookies on a pan. He slaughters and deveins and grinds specimens of nutmeg into a fine powder, and then sprinkles the remains into the pan. It seems normal. It even smells delicious, if Carlos can repress the memory of the animal’s dying wails long enough to enjoy it. As Earl sets the pan into the oven, Carlos recognizes the shape of one of those fancy European desserts. Tiramisu.

But as soon as the pan is in the oven, Earl returns to the counter, measures another cup of heavy cream into the mixing bowl, and begins beating it with smooth, practiced strokes.

“Are you going to make another one?” Carlos asks. When he gets no response, he raises his voice. “Earl? Are you making another one?”

It takes more than a minute before he’s answered with a vague nod, like Earl only remembered the question in hindsight. Earl’s expression is perfectly fixed on the task at hand.

“Earl, are you feeling alright?” Carlos touches his shoulder and tries to turn Earl to face him. The other man moves easily, but he doesn’t stop whipping the cream. “Earl?”

Experimentally, lays his hands on Earl’s wrist to still the rhythmic motion. Earl keeps moving, as if Carlos was just a gust of wind, rather than a concerned boyfriend. Carlos tries again, gripping Earl’s arm with both hands, but the other man doesn’t stop. Earl’s movements become more exaggerated as his muscles strain against the unexpected resistance. His eyes rise to Carlos’ face, cloudy and distant and… apologetic? Remorseful? No, _concerned_. But his concern doesn’t keep him from moving on from the cream and layering mascarpone and ladyfingers in a second pan.

Something is very, very wrong.

Cecil isn’t around to explain, so Carlos takes in what data he can through the power of science. He sets up timers to judge Earl’s footfalls, his exhalations, his whisks when he starts on yet another bowl of cream. He searches for mathematical meaning in the pattern of ladyfingers in the creamy cheese. But all of it comes up as gibberish. There is no set of intervals that he can assign a coherent meaning. There is no Night Valean language that he can decipher in Earl’s actions.

When intellect fails him, Carlos tries physical interference, but Earl is too well-balanced to be knocked over, too acrobatic to be tripped by obstacles. Carlos picks up the ingredients and moves them across the kitchen, but Earl gathers them again with barely a second’s interruption of his intricate patterns. It’s not much, but it’s the closest to an actual disruption that Carlos has managed so far. While Earl sets a fifth pan into the oven, Carlos gathers the rest of the ladyfingers. If hiding them behind the refrigerator will delay Earl by a few seconds, then maybe hiding them in the basement will shave a minute off his routine. Maybe locking them in the car and sending the Coupe off on a drive will break up his work enough to make him responsive again.

Carlos is almost to the garage when the door opens in front of him and Cecil steps inside. The radio host wobbles, arms full with dozens upon dozens of pans and baking dishes, most of them engraved with last names or initials. Carlos spots ‘Carlsberg’ written on one in Steve’s messy scrawl; Carlos recognizes others from Old Woman Josie’s kitchen, and from the NVCR break room.

The worry on Cecil’s face warms into affection when his eyes fall on Carlos. Then his eyes fall to the boxes of ladyfingers in Carlos’ hands, and his expression blanches to one of abject horror.

“Carlos-- Carlos, those aren’t--” The pans fall to the floor with all all the volume of a sunrise as Cecil dives at him and snatch a box out of Carlos’ hands. An instant later, vanishes  into the kitchen.

Carlos hasn’t moved an inch, stunned by the noise and the sudden rush. It’s a response honed by years of living and occasionally dying in this friendly desert town. A well-honed set of instincts tells him to run in the same direction as Cecil, but he remains motionless.

“Earl!” Cecil says frantically from the next room. “Earl, it’s alright! Look, I have the cookies, see? It’s alright. You don’t have to worry about anything, they’re right here. It’s alright. Everything’s alright.”

Mentally, Carlos marks off that experiment as a colossal failure. He tries to keep his thoughts clinical and scientific. Otherwise, he’ll focus too much on the feeling of helplessness gnawing on his mind. Or on the look of horror in Cecil’s eyes.

Carefully, Carlos creeps back into the kitchen. Earl is still baking, as unaffected as he has been for the past four hours. Cecil is busy fretting around the knife block, emptying every sharp object into a dish towel. His hand hesitates over the filleting knife Earl has been using on the mascarpone.

He looks up, and his eyes are worryingly bright. “I’m so sorry, Carlos. I should have explained better. I-- I thought it would be better to see for yourself, but-- I didn’t even think--” He clears his throat. “Right. Um. Can you put these away somewhere? Somewhere… er… difficult to get to. Please.”

“Right. Of course.” Carlos reaches for the filleting knife, but Cecil gently takes his hand.

“Maybe… maybe not that one.” He swallows. “If he can’t find a knife, he’ll try to gut the fish with something else. A spoon, maybe. Or a shoe. Or a nail. But he’ll find a way.”

“Maybe we can dull it?” Carlos suggests timidly. It shouldn’t take too much effort to rub the edge down to blunt metal.

“Oh, no. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one. No, we should… we should just leave it. But the rest should go. Can you…?”

Another nod, and Carlos carefully wraps the dish towel around the rest of the blades and carefully carries them away. He hides them in the crawlspace, well out of sight of casual observation, and then leaves a few vague hints for the Faceless Old Woman to assist as only she can. When he turns back to his hiding place, the knives are already gone.

Cecil’s worry is contagious. This is Night Vale, where table saws are considered family pets and small children are entrusted with automatic weapons without a second thought. The sudden fear that knives are too dangerous for a trained Scoutmaster is the worst kind of ominous.

When Carlos comes back upstairs, he finds Cecil perched uneasily by the dining room table. The boxes of cookies are still scattered in front of the garage door, along with dozens of pans. Carlos cringes and starts to pick them up.

“No, no, it’s alright,” Cecil says. “Leave them there. It’s probably better to put them a bit farther away. It was a good idea, Carlos. Really. I should have known you would think of it.”

He signals for Carlos to join him, and timidly the scientist does.

“I should have explained more thoroughly,” Cecil says again. “And sooner. I just-- I know it’s embarrassing for Earl. He doesn’t like people knowing about it when it happens. But sometimes he…”

“Bakes?” Carlos offers.

Cecil nods gravely. “Tiramisu is a dangerous recipe, and not just because it’s highly toxic, or entirely too rich in calories for something so delicious. It’s… it’s easy to prepare. Infectiously so. Once you start, you can’t stop making it. People have lost their minds preparing this recipe. They’ve lost other things…” He glances sideways back at the kitchen. The filleting knife has been positioned deliberately on the counter, so it’s easily within Cecil’s line of sight.

Carlos swallows.

“It runs its course in time, of course. And then the person is fine again. Perfectly fine. But it’s still there. And every so often, it just… comes back. For no reason, really. It just happens.”

“Will he be okay?” Carlos asks.

Cecil sighs. “Yes. Of course he will. He learned how to make tiramisu for a badge when we were in elementary school. And it’s fine. Most of the time. Just as long as he has enough ingredients, he’s fine.”

A dip in Carlos’ stomach tells him that he doesn’t want to know, but he’s a scientist. He has to ask. “What happens if he runs out?”

“It’s like with the knife. If he can’t find what he needs, he makes…” Cecil fidgets. “...substitutions.”

Both of them look back at the knife, and Carlos wonders what would be deemed an acceptable substitute for ladyfingers.

And then he wishes he hadn't.

* * *

 

Cecil can’t take time off from work on such short notice, but Carlos calls in at the lab so he can stay with Earl and replenish the pantries. Now that he understands the situation, he can start to do something about it. He starts doing calculations to determine how quickly the Scoutmaster goes through each ingredient, and starts setting up timers to alert him when any one food has less than an hour’s stock remaining. He makes sure that the nutmeg and mascarpone are still alive, so that they’re extra fresh-- and so it takes more time to kill and clean them properly.

When he’s not tending to supplies, Carlos arranges chairs around the kitchen so Earl can get off his feet and rest while he’s stirring. He sneaks shoulder rubs during Earl’s precious few moments of stillness. He prepares meals in small, bite-sized morsels that can easily be popped into Earl’s mouth and chewed without too much thought. He lifts glasses of water outfitted with crazy straws to Earl’s lips to fend off dehydration.

He leaves on the radio so Cecil can update them on the goings on around town, the movements of the Scouts, the predatory birds that weave around black helicopters without fear or hesitation. Earl can’t respond directly, but sometimes Carlos thinks he spots gratitude in Earl’s clouded expression. Maybe a twitch of the mouth. It’s just a twitch, but it’s something.

Earl is aware of his surroundings, even if only a little. After a while, Carlos notices that Earl is taking particular care to make the dreaded desert even better than it might otherwise be. Every cut is exacting, every grind of the nutmeg produces perfectly even powder. Initially he doesn’t think anything of it; he assumes it's just Earl taking pride in his cooking.

Then he starts to realize that Earl's making the recipe harder than it has to be. Less tempting. Less contagious. He doesn't have much control over himself, but he can do this much.

When Earl bends low to put his latest tiramisu in the oven, Carlos kisses his boyfriend’s cheek.

At night, Cecil and Carlos set up sleeping bags in the kitchen doorway so they're close by in case Earl needs them. The Faceless Old Woman has promised to wake them up if any of Carlos’ timers go off, or if there’s a fire, or if she’s bored and needs entertainment. On the second night of nonstop baking, Carlos fucks Cecil ragged on one of the sleeping bags to see if that snaps Earl out of it, even a little. The stirring doesn’t pause once during the endeavor, but Carlos notices Earl turned toward them as he stirs. He swears he can see a bulge. Maybe the strokes of the whisk come a little harder. Maybe, when he dips a finger into the cream to test the flavor, his tongue moves over skin a little more sensuously. It’s statistically significant, but the change is so slight that Cecil doesn’t notice.

Carlos might have assumed he imagined the whole thing, had the Faceless Old Woman not confirmed the data. Which he appreciates, though she could have skipped the critical analysis of their technique. Getting traction on a sleeping bag is hard, okay?

If he was in his right mind at the moment, Earl would point out the entendre.

* * *

 

Three days and several hundred pans of tiramisu later, Earl finally collapses. Carlos drags him away from the kitchen while Cecil hurries to clean up any residual ingredients that might trigger a relapse of dessert production. While he works, his ear is pressed to the phone, calling friends, acquaintances, SSP officers, and the families of every intern he’s ever had to see if any of them would be interested in taking some dessert off their hands.

Carlos turns his attention back to his other boyfriend. Earl is a mess. The smell of baking dessert doesn’t quite cover the odor of three days of constant, unwashed exertion. His clothes are stained with sweat and splattered ingredients. His lips are dry and chapped. His muscles are too firm in all the wrong places, knotted and tense from all that stirring and lifting and standing.

That won’t do.

There will be rectification for this. There will be hot baths and careful massages. There will be careful words and soft touches and…

And....

Carlos’ head is foggy, and for a moment he worries that he’s succumbing to the siren song of tiramisu. But no, there’s no urge to bake, no need to preheat the oven or grind up desert shellfish. Just the stress of the past few days catching up with him. Just the overwhelming relief that his boyfriend is going to be okay.

He squeezes close beside Earl and pulls him tight.

There will be sweetness later. For now, they will be content to sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Programme](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398985) by [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks)
  * [No Such Thing as Freedom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696736) by [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks)
  * [A Job Well Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982574) by [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks)




End file.
